Redeemed
by DinkyJo
Summary: That splashdown wasn’t as simple as it looked. A Stargate SG1 story by DinkyJo, a synthesis of Dinkydow and JoleneB. CAUTION: This fic has been found to be habit forming for some individuals.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Redeemed

**Authors:** DinkyJo; a synthesis of Dinkydow and JoleneB

**Category:** and/or Missing Scene, drama

**Pairings:** Jack/Sam

**Content Level: **18+

**Season:** Season 6

**Spoilers: **Redemption, Parts 1 and 2

**Warnings: **Wet Jack ahead, but nothing explicit.

**Summary:** That splashdown wasn't as simple as it looked.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, still don't own any of them. Couldn't afford to if I did and don't have a mountain to hide them in. Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions do. I wrote this for entertainment and won't be making any money for it, so please don't sue. But, if you guys want any help with scripts, or Jack, just give me a holler.

**Author's Notes - Dinky:** I couldn't help but wonder what was going on inside the command module after Jack ejected from the X302. Here's our take on it. My thanks to my hubby who used the "chicken plate" – mostly successfully – in Vietnam. I'd also like to thank my friend, Linda, for her expertise in "Navy-speak."

**Author's Notes** **- JoleneB**: Dinky's idea was very interesting cause it appears no one has taken advantage of this rather large time gap so full of possibilities. Just hope we filled it with the proper mixture of action and whump; but I'm sure you'll let us know. EG

**oXo**

"_You will bow to my awesome power. There is nothing that can stop the destruction I bring upon you. Prepare to meet your doom!" _

Anubis, Redemption, Part 1

"_Anybody want to wish me luck?" _

Colonel Jack O'Neill, Redemption, Part 2

**Chapter One**

Jack cocked his head as Carter's voice came through his headset. She sounded excited. '_That's my girl,_' Jack chortled to himself. '_You pulled a solution out of your butt again – and saved our asses to boot._'

Confidence rang across the void in her words. It was clear to him that she needed time to get it all set up, and that was up to him to find her some.

"Alright, well, in the meantime, I'll just . . . keep falling." Jack knew Carter wouldn't let him down; she never had and never would.

As he waited, Jack winced and blinked sweat out of his eyes. A little refrigeration would be welcome right now, and he wished they hadn't pulled so much of the life support systems out, especially the temperature control part. Sweat trickled down across his ribs and he could feel his fingers slipping around inside his flight gloves making maintaining his tight grip on the stick take more focus then he cared for.

The fact that the gate didn't look white-hot didn't mean it wasn't turning his ride into a flying toaster oven. And the idea that it was positioned squarely under his butt gave Jack an almost irrational desire for an old-fashioned chicken plate. The men who crewed Huey copters in Vietnam were in the habit of installing thick steel plates under their seats to protect their assets – the family jewels – from stray ordinance. Though the 'chicken plates' were more psychological than physical protection, he wished he had something similar between him and his explosively dangerous cargo – like about three-gazillion miles of crowded vacuum.

Instrument readouts, what there was left of the flight instruments that is, jumped and juddered as the ship and 'gate fell. Jack could feel every molecule of air in the resultant jolt of teeth against teeth.

'_Come on. Carter,_' Jack projected, hoping for her voice sooner rather than later. His forearms burned with his efforts to keep the craft under control and he was beginning to realize just what a soup bone endured in the pot.

"Carter?"

"We're done! Uploading the new program, sir. All you'll have to do now is activate the generator."

Jack nodded. "Roger that."

"You won't have much time," she cautioned. Did he hear some worry in her voice? On the heels of his mental query came his dismissal of it as a factor. Whether she was worried or not was moot at this stage of the operation. Now it was in his hands – quite literally – yep, no pressure there.

"I know," he acknowledged.

"Sir," she paused. "If this works. . ."

"I know!"

"Sir," Sam added.

"What?" Jack snapped and then regretted it.

"Good luck." She sounded apologetic, and for that, he didn't growl a reply. She of all people knew what would/could happen. Heck, she'd probably already calculated his rate of decent. That is if their current plan worked. And it had all been going so well, hadn't it?

To distract himself, Jack pulled his visor over his eyes, and let himself sink into the relative calm and comfort of his training. "Activating Hyperspace generator," he intoned as his long fingers flipped the toggles. "Now . . ."

His eyes widened as the misty hyperspace window appeared in front of him. Unlike the last time, the X-302 arrowed straight for the middle of the murky opening that led to god only knew where. Not that it mattered, as long as it took his aircraft and its deadly cargo far far away.

Jack reached upwards and wrapped his fingers around the twin levers on either side of his head, grasped them and pulled firmly. Then he bent his head forward and squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and expelled it when he heard and felt the popping sound of the explosives firing that would separate and propel his command module away from the body of the X-302.

The screech of protesting metal set his teeth on edge as his module protested his actions. Its rapid and then aborted surge upwards had his stomach climbing up his throat.

'_Oh, so not good!'_ He swallowed bile and muttered. "Come on you son of a bitch, you can do it."

With one last eardrum-shattering screech, the module and X-302 parted company. Suddenly free of the weight of the stargate and aircraft, the command module bucked upward and then away. Jack opened his eyes and chanced a look around him. Then he heard a loud bang, as he was jerked to one side, so hard that he bit the inside of his mouth, his vision filled with an incandescent blue.

If he could have screamed he would have, but his lungs wouldn't work. Nothing worked, except for his nerves. Oh, but they worked all right. Pain coursed along them, his body riddled with white hot threads pulsing with blue fire until he reached an orgasm-like peak, then darkness flooded across his consciousness.

In what felt like the next instant bursting bubbles of light erupted behind his eyeballs, followed closely by his body being violently thrown into the safety straps. His ears were assailed with the scream of atmosphere against ceramic hull plate and Plexiglas canopy. Through the light show the world beyond the clear canopy oscillated between black and blue.

Instinct thrust out Jack's arm to ground himself against the inner hull of what was now nothing more than a composite box dangling from a blossom of parachutes. His throbbing head did the math; he'd lost a couple of minutes back there somewhere. He'd judged the loss a small price to pay; he'd come way too close to taking that one-way trip 'with' the gate. Absently sucking on his lip, he tasted the tang of his own blood, not entirely sure just why it was there.

Afterimages of jagged blue lightening overlaid his vision, and he tingled in the most annoying way, his sense of touch so muted he doubted that he had contact with anything, let alone the flight seat he was firmly strapped into.

Just as he began to fear that way too much had been pulled from the X-302 he finally found the dim flashing red telltale of the capsule's beacon. At least they would be able to track him down; because there was no way that he was going to get a message out. That portion of the control panel was sending up lazy curls of smoke, fouling the air with the acrid taste of burnt metal and insulation.

Like any good pilot his hands automatically sought out the fire extinguisher for just such emergencies, only his gloved hands – after a frustrating search because of the still lingering numbness – found only the bracket that it should have been mounted in.

Oy!

Plan B.

Jack nearly had to claw the smoldering panel up with his hands, reaching in he was able to wrap gloved fingers over the short before the increase in oxygen caused the smoke to flare to open flame and smothered it. He sighed with relief. This ride was way beyond an E ticket.

No sooner had that problem been solved than his whole body was violently slammed down into his seat, almost stunning him.

'_Splashdown. Now that's a first for me.'_ He grinned. '_Cool!_'

The rebound of the capsule bobbing up from the water slammed him upwards into his straps. He just knew that he was gonna have some great bruises as reminders of this latest caper.

There was a half a dozen nearly as brain-jarring lurches from one side to another, coming from no set direction as sea and buoyant foreign object sought their reconciliation. Jack was just along for the ride. He was immediately reminded that this was why he was Air Force; he turned green as the swell of the ocean transmitted itself through the singed hull that enclosed him.

Fumbling with the straps that held him in place he managed to coat his boots with the contents of his stomach rather than his lap. Thank God for small favors. He knew he shouldn't have had that cake.

Free of his bonds and his oh so sweet confection, Jack knew that seeing the horizon was – at the moment – the most important goal he had. Gingerly, so as to not slip in the steaming slime he'd just created, he stood to un-dog the hatch, one shoulder planted against the low ceiling of the cabin against its bobbing-cork motion.

That was when he discovered that his neck hurt like the dickens.

'_Oh, for crying out loud, is there such a thing as 'splashdown whiplash?'_ he thought as he rubbed it with one hand before he attacked the hatch again.

With the heavy fasteners removed all he had to do was fire the explosive bolts. Even though they were small and vented entirely to the other side of the hatch, Jack pressed himself to one side as far as possible before slamming his hand down on the large button. Thankfully, that too hadn't fallen victim to the drastic weight-reduction program. His hand hit the edge of the inner hull instead and he yelped. Dang, it felt like he'd broken a finger with that clumsy move. Cursing the ocean, the hatch and the designers of said hatch, he tried and succeeded the second time.

The hatch wrang-ed out a half an inch in a roar, then with an ear-splitting not-quite-metallic screech it disappeared entirely. So fast that Jack couldn't tell what direction it had gone.

The smell of the sea invaded the acrid air of the X-302's capsule and ignited Jack's stomach into another spasm. His head just clearing the edge of the opening he christened his odd boat with strings of phlegmy discharge that the wind immediately blew back into his face. This was so not his day.

Spitting and scrubbing at his face with his hands he lunged upwards into the salt spray to the sounds of approaching jets and the low whump-whump of helicopters. Both arms sprang upwards to block the spray, the too bright sun and incidentally to help improve his unsteady balance.

He felt pathetic, but at this stage he didn't give a damn. Jack counted himself lucky that this little mission had been as smooth as glass – sort of. He could have been killed if anything had really gone wrong – like landing anywhere other than the ocean.

Please someone, just pick him up and put him in a nice steady aircraft.

Unsteadily he waved his sliver-clad arms most enthusiastically.

**oXo**

The helicopter slowly lowered itself over him and what was left of the X-302, legs dangled from the open hatch of the sleek airship, another figure couched behind the orange clad man sat there. Jack watched as at a slap from the second man the first slipped out feet first to plunge into the heaving waves.

This was the swimmer part of the rescue team – his ticket to freedom. These men risked their lives plucking hapless flyboys like him from the ocean. In just moments the swimmer jutted up out of the gunmetal colored water to salute the helicopter. Jack saw the rescue basket already occupied the open hatch above him, and as he watched it slipped free into space buoyed up by a slender cable.

"Sir, I'm here to help you."

He'd been so occupied watching what was happening above that he missed the approach of the swimmer entirely and flinched in reaction to a voice so close in the crashing of waves against the capsule.

Jack shook himself. He was getting way too old for this and needed to pay better attention.

"Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Are you injured, sir?"

Jack shook his head. "No, just a bit shook up is all. Other than that I'm fine."

"I'm not surprised, sir. Whumping into the ocean like you did has a tendency to do that," the swimmer chuckled while he treaded water.

"Ya think?" Jack smiled. He liked this guy. What's more, he felt he could trust him with his life, which was a very good thing because that was exactly what he was about to do.

In short order Jack was in the ocean, passively allowing the swimmer to tow him to the rescue basket floating on its two large orange floats not far from them. The moment he slipped into the water, seawater seeped through his silver pressure G-suit and chilled him to the bone. He distracted himself by watching the hovering helicopter and the man in the black scuba suit.

As the waves swirled around him, whipped into frothy tips by the hovering helicopter, he inadvertently got a mouthful of salt water. He spat it out, and then winced as the sores in his mouth burned from the salt.

As they both swooped up and down in the swells he could glimpse the larger helicopter that stood station well out of the way, it was here to recover the command capsule, couldn't have that fall into anyone's hands – like the Russians. Jack inwardly snickered at the thought; the very idea that his life-long enemies had blue prints, but still might want the hardware too. Would wonders never cease?

Jack followed the kid's instructions and let him do all the work of getting him into the basket. At a raised fist from his savior he and the basket sluggishly popped from the waves and into the air. He had to shut his eyes from the vertigo induced as the cage twirled in a couple of swift circles in one direction and then another.

When it banged into something his eyes shot open – before him was the helicopter. Appearing like a huge hummingbird in a stiff blow, it made his stomach clench. Normally this wouldn't bother him but that damned ocean had started something that only a good solid stay on land could cure.

He and the rescue basket were carefully and swiftly pulled inside the open hatch of the copter. Jack found himself propped against the far wall cushioned on blankets with another one wrapped around his shoulders.

The basket was stowed aft of him and tied down. The swimmer was already there swaying before the hatch as his teammate hauled him inside. Jack wasn't paying any attention to the corpsman who tried and failed to get his attention.

"Sir?"

"I'm okay," Jack shouted to be heard above the prop noise.

"Are you . . ."

"Positive," Jack answered firmly but shivered despite the warm blanket. "I could use some dry clothes though."

"We'll get you something to change into once we've landed," assured the corpsman.

He caught the attention of the swimmer and leaned forward to push out his hand. Immediately it was grasped by the smiling young man and shaken firmly.

"Thanks."

"Just doing my job, sir."

"Thanks, just the same."

The flight lasted only minutes, not enough time for Jack to get acquainted with the swimmer, whose name was Ben. He never got the rest of their names, but he did have their smiles and the feel of a job well done that each and every one of them radiated.

The pilot put the whumping-bird down like it had never left, so light was his touchdown. Jack wasn't too happy about being helped from the craft, but tolerated it. But when that gurney arrived he put his foot down. It squished seawater when he did, but he put it down nonetheless. A mule had nothing on him.

The medic ended up pushing the gurney back with him and acted as his escort as Jack limped and squished across the deck toward the indicated hatch. Behind him the helo and its crew slowly disappeared straight down as the deck turned lift lowered it into the dark sunless storage bays until it was needed again.

At least the motion of the ocean wasn't as bad here on the carrier. But his little problem with that was minor compared to this desire to return to the SGC. Jack hoped he could get a swift ride back as he wondered just what else was down in the dark yearning to see the light and feel the freedom of the air under its wings – as did he.

"We really need to check you out, sir," the medic objected once they'd stepped through the open hatch.

Jack stopped and turned around, nailing the hapless Navy medic with his full glare, the one he reserved for times like this. "Does the word no mean nothing to you? I'm fine – wet but fine."

"My orders state you're to have a full exam," the medic paused and then added, "sir."

"Doesn't it say colonel on my uniform?" He fingered the sodden collar of his soggy pressure suit and grimaced.

"No, sir, it doesn't."

"Well it should."

"The exam?"

"No exam, I'm fine."

"Then why are you limping?"

"That's an old injury and if I told you how I got it, I'd have to shoot ya."

The medic's eyes widened and Jack sighed.

"That was a joke." Jack paused and shivered. "Look, if you must do something, get me some dry clothes. I feel like I soaked up half the danged ocean."

He flinched as a cold trickle of water seeped under his collar and ran down his back. The flinch turned into a spasm of pain that ripped along his spine and up to the top of his head. His hand automatically rose to massage the back of his neck, but when Jack realized his actions had caught the attention of the medic, he switched targets and swept his long fingers through his short hair with irritation, leaving behind tufts that stuck up at odd angles.

"Is there a problem here?"

Jack sighed. "No, there isn't. This corpsman was just getting me some dry clothes," He turned to the corpsman and nailed him with a glare. "Weren't you?"

The corpsman frowned and addressed his words to the Navy officer who stood behind Jack. "Sir, I was attempting to escort Colonel O'Neill to sick bay but he has refused."

"Colonel Jack O'Neill? I'm Lieutenant Commander Sam Thompson, the Enterprise's XO. My boss sent me to bring you to his cabin. He'd like to meet the jet jockey that's so important that his ship was diverted to scoop him up out of the drink."

Jack smiled. "Glad to meet you, Thompson, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather skip all the chitchat and fly back home. I've got a heck of a debrief waiting for me, and the sooner I get there, the sooner I can get some downtime."

"Shucks, sir. Are you gonna turn down the Navy's hospitality?" The office drawled. "Where I come from it's not polite to turn down an invite from the boss."

"And where would that be?" Jack couldn't help it, he was cold, tired, and just wanted to go home – certainly in no mood to make nice with the squids from the Navy.

"Galveston, in the great state of Texas."

Jack grimaced, "I should have known. You wouldn't know my CO, would you? You sound just like him."

When Thompson opened his mouth, Jack waved his hand. "No, don't answer that, I'd have to shoot ya too if I told you his name, and I hate the paperwork when that happens."

"Then you might as well come with me, Colonel. My boss doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"So . . . no Tomcat?"

The XO shook his head. "No Tomcat. Your ride will be here in about an hour. Just enough time to pay my boss a visit and change into something dry."

"For crying out loud, the things I do . . ." Jack muttered under his breath but followed the Navy officer. At this point, he could do little else, or risk being shipped back to the SGC in irons, which would not sit well with Hammond – even if he had saved his planet . . . again.

Thompson turned to the medic, "You're dismissed, corpsman. I'll take it from here."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Yes, thanks but no thanks," Jack muttered and ignored the look of disapproval he received from the medic.

"Tell me, Colonel. Are you always this good-natured? Or is this a special gift of yours?"

"What?" Jack feigned a look of confused innocence. "Oh, that?"

"Yes, that."

"Let's just say that I get cranky when I'm tired and leave it at that."

"Whatever you say, sir." The Navy officer looked like he didn't believe his excuse and continued. "If you'll come with me? You can change into a poop suit before you meet the Skipper. He doesn't like it when people drip all over his deck."

Jack stopped in his tracks. "A what?"

"A poop suit," the XO turned and smirked. "What you flyboys call a flight suit."

Jack rolled his eyes. "It figures." He shook his head and muttered to himself. "And this is the thanks I get . . ."

"Did you say something, Colonel?" The XO looked far too innocent for Jack's taste, but he refused to rise to the bait.

"Naw, just squishing along."

The colonel pasted a smile on his face and waved his hand. "So this is the Enterprise? And the captain would be James T. Kirk?" he smirked.

"No, he would not. And if you know what's good for you, you won't say that to the captain. You have no idea how many times we've heard that particular line."

Jack smiled and tried to like it, really he did. But his bum knee hurt, his neck hurt, his mouth felt like he's chewed a hole in the side of it, and his stomach still wouldn't quiet down. Not to mention the headache that was getting worse by the second. At least the aircraft carrier was large enough that the effect of the ocean waves was negated . . . mostly. Other than that, he was fine . . . just fine. Or would be once he was back safely back on dry land.

"You can change in here, and then I'll escort you to see the skipper," the XO indicated an open door that led into a small compartment. Jack stepped inside and looked around. When he saw the flight suit laid out on the bunk, he raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Your poops suit awaits," the XO clearly thought he was being hilarious.

"Of course it does," Jack grimaced. "Don't quit your day job," he muttered to himself. Who was that guy trying to kid? _'Don't try to teach this old dog to suck eggs, squid. I can out-do your pithy attempt and acting the innocent bit without half trying.'_

Although the bunk behind him looked very inviting, he ignored it and concentrated on peeling off the silvery pressure suit that seemed to have adhered most unpleasantly to his skin.

Stepping out of it, one leg at a time, he braced one arm against the wall to keep his balance. Once the garment released its grip on his ankles, he flung it into a corner and picked up the dry clothing. His attention was drawn to his mottled chest. Looking more closely, he noted his chest and legs had a light coating of white that itched like crazy but flaked off and drifted to the floor when he scrubbed at it.

Even he had to admit that he looked like hell and was glad he had turned down the corpsman's invitation to be examined. From the looks of the bruises that covered his chest and shoulders, not to mention how the muscles in his back corded and rippled every time he moved, he'd had one bumpy ride.

Jack leaned closer to the mirror in front of him and noted the bruising followed the exact outlines of his harness from the X-302. Yep, it had been one bumpy ride all right. And he would have a time keeping out of Doc's hands once he made it back to the SGC. While he had been able to bull his way out of a medical exam on the Enterprise, Fraiser knew him – and his tricks – and would not be so easily fooled. Crap.

But at least he felt warmer once he'd stepped into the dry flight suit and zipped it up. It did wonders for his sour mood and he felt ready to face almost anything as he stepped into the corridor – even a captain from Texas.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

To his surprise, the hour-long meet and greet with the captain went by quickly. And wearing something that didn't squish when he moved was a decided improvement. He'd stopped shivering too, for the most part. But his skin itched and he fought the urge to scratch – mostly. It was very . . . distracting though.

Before he knew it, he was aboard another helicopter on his way to Eglin Air Force Base in sunny Florida. After landing there, he was escorted to a jet that was waiting for him on the tarmac.

It was probably just as well that he hadn't gotten that Tomcat he'd asked for. He felt like crap and wanted nothing more than to sleep and take a long hot shower – not necessarily in that order.

After debarking from the helo, Jack felt like kissing the runway under his feet but was afraid he would embarrass himself when he couldn't rise from his knees without help. Instead he hunched over to avoid the still-whirling props of the helicopter and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

The short distance from the helicopter to the jet seemed to stretch on forever and his bum knee reminded him that it had been treated badly in the not so recent past. It didn't help that the tarmac seemed to pitch and sway like the deck of a ship, or a command module after it'd splashed down.

His stomach lurched and Jack swallowed the acidy bile that tried to make an appearance. A deep breath calmed his stomach somewhat, but his legs seemed to wobble on earth that wouldn't stand still.

"One foot in front of the other," Jack chanted the mantra as he gritted his teeth and focused on his goal. "Come on, Jack. You can do it."

After what seemed like an eternity, Jack was there. He'd made it. He lifted his eyes and saw steps in front of him – steps that looked to lead to the top of Mount Everest. Crap.

Jack mounted them only by pulling himself along the rail that ran alongside it. His eyes were set firmly on his next goal, the doorway at the top.

After what seemed like hours, he stood in the open doorway and was met by a tech sergeant whose nametag said Williams. He had a high-and-tight haircut and looked all business. "Good afternoon, sir. If you'll take a seat, I'll tell the pilot we can take off."

Jack nodded and did as he asked. Once he had buckled his seatbelt, he took a look around. This was definitely not a C-130. It was a sweet little Learjet, the kind a CEO or a general would use. If he hadn't been forced to watch the treacherous ground with every step, he'd have noticed the sweet little aircraft sooner.

Under other circumstances, he would've been in the cockpit caging a chance to fly her, but right then, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't work up the excitement he'd normally feel about such an aircraft. As it was, all he wanted to do was strap in and catch some serious zees. He closed his eyes briefly and scrubbed his face with both hands. When his vision fuzzed out he blinked hard trying to refocus.

He must be getting old, Jack mused, there was no way he should be this tired after his little joyride on the X-302. He was beginning to wonder if he should've let himself get checked out. But then he shook his head. No, he was fine. He had to be, he told himself firmly.

The chair he was belted into beat the heck out of flying coach on some airline, or worse the hard plastic molded seat or bench of a military transport. It had the look of a recliner in his living room, complete with lots of padding on the arms. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back at home, watching the television, with nothing more pressing to worry about than if his hockey team would win the game.

He could almost hear Homer . . .

"Sir?" Homer bumped Jack's shoulder with his hamburger and apologized.

"Sir?"

"Ketchup and mustard, no pickle," Jack mumbled and shrugged away from the disturbance.

"Wake up, sir." His shoulder was prodded again. Dang, Jack thought, they just don't give up.

He pried one eye open and was greeted with the face of the tech sergeant, up close and personal. From the looks of his five o'clock shadow, the man needed a shave.

"What?" Jack grumbled. "This better be good. Homer fixed my burger just like I like it."

"Sorry, sir." The Sergeant didn't look like he meant it.

Jack straightened in the chair and winced, his muscles had stiffened while he was asleep. "Save the world and this is the thanks I get," he mumbled. "Okay, I'm awake. What's so important that you couldn't let me catch a little shut-eye?"

"You've got a phone call, sir," the sergeant paused. "From the Commander in Chief."

"The Commander in Chief?" Jack's eyebrows shot upwards.

The Sergeant nodded and patted the phone beside Jack's seat.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" He fumbled around for a moment and then grabbed the phone that Williams detached from the console built into the arm of his chair.

"Uh, thanks." The sergeant nodded and then headed toward the back of the plane.

Jack held the phone to his ear and wiggled around. At first he only heard static. "Hello?"

"Colonel Jack O'Neill?'

Jack recognized the voice, it sounded like the President all right. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"I wanted to thank you for what you did today . . . saving the planet that is."

"Yes, sir. All in a day's work . . . I always say." Jack winced at his cliché. "Yes sir, that's what I say all right."

"You're being too modest, Jack. From what I hear you did a great job, and put your own life on the line too."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't have done it without all the support of the staff at the SGC." Uncomfortable with the accolades and attention, Jack shifted in his chair and ran his tongue over his sore and puffy lips. He swore he could still taste the salt water he'd swallowed on his short swim. But that just wasn't possible – was it?

He shook his head and refocused on the phone call. "Besides, that's what I get paid all the big bucks to do, sir."

"The staff of the SGC will be recognized too, but let's talk about the part you played." The President paused. "Because of the . . . secret nature of the Stargate Program, you know I can't acknowledge your actions publicly, so I called to assure you that your actions have been noticed. In fact, as your Commander in Chief, I would like to give you some kind of reward for what you did today."

"Oh?" Both eyebrows shot upward as he wondered just what the President had in mind. This could get interesting.

"Since the Stargate is gone, your assignment at the SGC will be ending. Where would you like to be assigned next? You name it and I'll see that you get it, Jack."

"Sir?"

"I mean it, any assignment you want; it's yours."

"I . . ." he hesitated. "I really hadn't given it much thought, sir." He felt a yawn building and despite him holding the phone away from his mouth, a loud groan still escaped. "Sorry, Mr. President. It's not you . . . well; let's just say it's been a very long day."

Jack heard a chuckle from his caller. "I certainly know what that's like."

Colonel O'Neill nodded and swept his free hand through his stiff hair, then grimaced as his fingers were left coated with a grainy substance. He shook his fingers to free them of the grime and then settled for wiping them on the leg of his Navy poop suit.

He shifted the phone to his other hand and then replied, "To tell you the truth, sir, the only assignment I want right now is Bedroom Air Force Base."

"Bedroom Air Force Base?"

"It's a joke, Mr. President." Jack rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Oy.

"Yes, well, you think about what assignment you would like and get back to me. I'll make sure you get whatever you want. It's the least a very grateful nation can do for its unsung heroes."

'_Unsung heroes?'_ Jack mouthed silently. "Yes, sir. I'll do that. Good-bye, Mr. President. Thank you for calling."

"No, Jack. Thank you."

The line went dead and Jack placed the phone back in its compartment and patted it. "I think he likes me," he smirked, "but has absolutely no sense of humor."

He shook his head, settled back against the pillowy cushions of the headrest and sighed. "Any assignment I want, huh? Sweet."

Jack closed his eyes, he felt so tired. And then it started . . . that infernal itching. His eyes snapped open. One handed he scrubbed at his stomach and groin and grunted. He twisted in his chair and closed his eyes again.

He was just about to drift off when the itch started again. This time it was the arch of his foot – inside his boot – right where he couldn't reach it unless he took it off. And he just couldn't seem to summon up the energy to do something that complicated. He wiggled his toes and ground the ball of his foot against the floor of the aircraft. It didn't work. Not only that, now his back itched. Had he mentioned how much that itching was driving him crazy?

"For crying out loud," Jack muttered as he wiggled in his chair and tried to relieve the god-awful itching there. It didn't work.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Jack jumped. He hadn't heard the sergeant approach. "What? Oh, no. It's nothing."

The sergeant looked dubious. "Perhaps I can help?"

"Not unless you care to give me a back rub," Jack muttered as he scratched absently at his chest.

"Sir?" The sergeant looked scandalized. "I don't . . ."

"Never mind, I was only kidding," Jack waved him back with his free hand, the one that wasn't scratching at various parts of his anatomy. Never mind what parts.

"Whatever you say, sir," The sergeant turned to leave.

"Wait, you can tell me something." Jack half stood and scratched his butt. "Are we there yet?"

**oXo**

Janet squared her shoulders and tightened her grip on the folder she cradled to her chest. Then she knocked on General Hammond's office door. She hadn't been too worried when she discovered that Colonel O'Neill had volunteered to pilot the X-302 to get the Stargate off the planet. If anyone could do it he and Major Sam Carter together could. It wasn't until later that she'd discovered that it had been a one-man mission with a slim chance of survival.

Right now she was thinking that O'Neill's survival wasn't necessarily a good thing for him. In her hands was a report from a Navy corpsman about his unsuccessful attempt to examine her wayward and very alive colonel. Alive for now – once she got her hands on him, he might not be. Or at the very least, he would wish he weren't. And with the general's help, she would ensure he received the very best medical exam and care that her Infirmary could provide – whether the recipient wanted it or not.

When the corpsman's report had arrived at the SGC, she'd been pleasantly surprised and treated it for the treasure that it was. Very precisely and carefully she had placed the report in the folder that she now carried cradled against her chest. Reports like this from outside the SGC regarding base personnel were rare and gears that could take two years to produce a crate of toilet paper somehow had gotten it to her inside of 24-hours.

But it also seemed the air of secrecy that pushed that report along so swiftly hampered her efforts to discover the exact location of the colonel. The hints in the corpsman's report could very well be nothing, but . . . Surely if there were a problem, if he were injured, someone, would notice and say something? Wouldn't they?

She could have slapped herself; of course not, Jack was a master at hiding his condition. He could be at death's door and not even she could tell. Can't report what you don't see.

"Come," Hammond's absent-minded response to her knock caught her off-guard for a moment and she took a deep breath to enable her to gather her thoughts. She would have to move fast and have all her ducks in a row before Colonel O'Neill returned to the SGC. Once he'd arrived, she wouldn't have the luxury of time on her hands. She'd be much too busy putting out fires and dealing with whatever arguments he would have about going home to deal with anything else.

Janet smiled and walked into his office, "Thank you for seeing me, sir."

Hammond waved distractedly at the stack of folders on his desk, "Have a seat. What can I do for you, Doctor?"

Janet complied, opened the folder and handed the report to her CO. "About an hour ago, I received this report from the aircraft carrier that picked up Colonel O'Neill. It's from the attending medic. I thought you'd want to see it, sir."

"Of course," Hammond glanced briefly at the report. "It says here that there was no exam . . ."

"Yes, sir. It does. Apparently, the colonel refused to allow them to examine him."

"Is he all right?" Hammond rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"That's just it, sir. We have no way of knowing. And with his past history of ducking medical exams and minimizing any physical symptoms, it is imperative that he be examined as soon as he arrives back at the SGC."

"And you want me to back you up. Is that it, Doctor?"

Janet dimpled. "Yes, sir, that's it in a nutshell. You know as well as I do that the colonel will throw a fit if I try to keep him in the Infirmary for an exam." She shook her head and grimaced. "That knee of his had him sidelined from active duty already. There's no telling what's been done to it. He did crash-land into the ocean and . . ." her words trailed off. "To tell you the truth, I'm worried. That corpsman may not have examined him, but he did observe a few things that worried him, and what worries him worries me."

"You've convinced me, Janet. If our returning hero gives you any trouble, refer him to me."

"Thank you, sir. I will certainly do just that."

Any further thoughts of colonel-torture were interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.

"Hammond." He paused and nodded. "Yes, escort him down to the Infirmary. Yes, I said the Infirmary. And make sure he doesn't get lost on the way down," his voice held more than a hint of threat.

He hung up the phone. "He's on his way down. With an escort, I might add. He's all yours, Doctor. After you've finished with him, you can send him to my office – that is if he's up to it."

Janet smiled and rose from her chair. Her final trap had been sprung.

**oXo**

"Hey, I'm going, I'm going," echoed across the empty Infirmary.

The two SFs detailed to 'accompany' Colonel O'Neill to the Infirmary knew the consequences of failure – to Hammond, and to the SGC's CMO. Her collection of gleaming needles – more suitable to an exotic vet who dealt with elephants – were her greatest motivators for the sometimes-mulish males of the SGC. It was amazing how squeamish men could get about such tiny little things.

Janet couldn't help but smile at the images of past encounters brought to mind as she hurried about preparing the equipment she would need to examine the wayward colonel.

Janet looked up to study and evaluate his approach as her hands busily finished up the tray she'd need for blood samples. What she saw wasn't bad, but he was limping far more than he had the last time she'd seen him.

"Colonel, this way," she called out to him.

"See, I'm here. You can vamoose now," O'Neill made shooing motions at the two heavily armed men; men that could make Teal'c look like a ninety-pound weakling. Janet smirked as both of the men looked to her for their orders. The look on the colonel's face was priceless; he was not used to being summarily dismissed by those of a lower rank for a mere major.

At her nod, the two SFs neatly about-faced and left. Patting the empty bed she beckoned the colonel closer. He looked a mess in what had to be a borrowed one-piece jumpsuit, just a tad too short, and she could hear the squishing of wet footwear as he came toward her. He was making an effort to limit his limp and it showed on his face. He'd probably missed his meds, the swelling had returned, and that would be painful. Janet knew that he'd not fly anything under the influence of even an aspirin.

Janet was happy with her decision to examine him on one of the beds rather than a gurney as Jack more fell than jumped onto it. Leaping about with that knee was not something she'd recommend.

With a practiced flick of the wrist the privacy curtain shot along the track to block any casual visitor's view of what came next.

"If you please, sir. Strip."

"Doc . . ." He half-heartedly whined.

"Sir . . ." Janet retorted in a stern tone.

O'Neill relented and bent over laboriously, and with great exaggerated care he unlaced his boots. Half the ocean seemed to pour from the first boot. Janet had to bite her tongue to keep her offer of help from her lips; he looked wrung out – no pun intended, as Jack would say. One very white and wrinkled foot seemed relieved to be free of the sopping sock that splat-ed to the floor next to the dripping boot.

"I'll get you a towel, sir."

"Thanks."

He was tugging off the second sock as she returned with an armload of towels. His toes wiggled at the sudden freedom and Jack sighed in pleasure and leaned back, obviously relieved to be free of those boots. This was just one of the tiny little unguarded moments that it was her privilege to observe – and her duty to never reveal. He was a private man and she took her oath very seriously.

"Sir."

"Thanks. Uhh, sorry about the mess," one eloquent hand gestured vaguely at the spreading puddle.

"I've seen worse, sir. And speaking of worse . . ."

"Okay, okay," as he slipped off the bed to stand. The jumpsuit landed in the puddle and helped sop up the water as Janet attempted to dam the edge with towels. A ginger push with one bare foot had the whole mess over to one side allowing Janet to turn her attention to the colonel's physical status.

"How painful are those, sir?"

"What . . . Oh, those," Jack make a show of looking down at his chest where two broad crossed bruises peeked out of his chest hair, to disappear over each shoulder and fade out below his ribs, more red than purple, showing their status as very recent. "They don't hurt. Probably won't even show by this time tomorrow."

Janet poked at the worst of the two, making O'Neill flinch back.

"Not painful? Yes, sir, if you say so."

Jack just grinned sheepishly, knowing she knew his denial for the lie it was.

"And the redness, sir?" He immediately removed his hand from rubbing along the front of one thigh, the location of one of the redder places he was sporting beyond his 'X marks the spot' bruise. Places that tended to be worse the more sensitive and private the territory.

"Salt water rash? Didn't rinse off after your swim, sir?"

"Didn't have a chance to." He sounded peeved.

"Well, sir. Let me draw a little blood and then it's off to the showers."

Jack quietly sat and endured the needle, but kept his eyes fastened to it during the entire procedure.

"Thank you, sir." Janet muttered as she capped the last vial. Jack rubbed at the place she'd stuck him. He quit rubbing at her sudden glare, and stealthily allowed his hand to sneak away.

"I'll go shower."

"Okay, sir. Oh, and lose the boxers," not even cracking a smile at the idea that a superior officer would wear something so un-military while on duty. Large yellow happy faces, each sporting a rudely stuck-out bright-red tongue almost jumped off the damp-clinging nearly transparent material that molded itself to the skin of his hips and buttocks.

O'Neill wasn't gone long and returned clad only in a back-tied gown, one hand behind his back holding its edges together, but allowing one shoulder bared as his other hand was busy tugging the front down. Janet had to admit the damned things were too short, she could see most of those handsome legs from near the top of the thigh right down to his totally bare toes.

Unfortunately those killer legs were marred by blotches of salt rash and the puffiness of his swollen knee. Janet was relieved to see no bruises though. Those seemed to be confined to his chest and shoulders. Holding up her hand, she halted him. With a twirl of her finger, he obediently presented his back to her. She knew that he knew what she wanted, and he shrugged the gown from where it covered that one shoulder, but kept his firm grip on the back, not allowing it to slip below the waist.

Jack started a bit as Janet ran light fingers along the trail of bruising from the top of his shoulder, dropping an inch or more to abruptly cease. She knew just as well as he did that the straps normally attached to the seat frame above shoulder level. It must have been a bumpy ride indeed to have thrown him up into the straps that far.

Pressing fingers along the bruise lightly she worked her way from his back to his chest, making him gasp and grunt from time to time; and he shivered as she made it to the outside of his lower ribs and the faint redness of bruising that probably would never show.

"It's not bad, Doc."

She wasn't buying his 'it's no big deal' act and let him know it. "It'll be beautiful in a few days. May I see the rest, sir?"

Janet knew that he hated this part, to be completely disrobed and viewed; it was now that they both dropped into the most formal of military etiquette. Without a word, O'Neill's gown was suddenly entirely balled in one fist as both arms rose, allowing Janet an unencumbered view of every square inch of him.

Janet made it a practice – as much as she could – to never touch him during this embarrassing time – and never sought eye contact, giving the colonel as much privacy as possible. They both did their best to ignore just what the other was doing.

"Thank you, sir," her formal signal to dress. She stepped away and turned her back to him, never raising her eyes. After a few beats it was as if nothing had happened, she turned to find him seated on the bed, gown secured around him, hands in his lap; a determined look on his face.

"I'm not staying."

'_My. A preemptive strike.'_ Janet took just a moment to really look at his face; he looked tired. And decided that deafness would be the best approach. Briskly she picked up the BP cuff and took his pressure, then his temperature. Both were annoying normal. Then she slipped the pre-warmed stethoscope down his gown, hearing a healthy heart thumping away at a relaxed pace.

"Not staying."

Janet made a few notations on the colonel's chart, stepped to the medicine cabinet, and dispensed a few pills into a paper cup, filled another cup with water and returned to stand in front of Jack.

"For the knee," she explained curtly and watched as he downed the pills and water, then took the emptied cups from him and disposed of them. Next the penlight appeared in her hand. He stoically endured, what was to him, the second most distasteful part of any exam.

"Not. Staying," he stated matter-of-factly, blinking his eyes.

Janet made more notes on the chart, retrieved more pills – these in small bottles, being more than one dose – and returned to the colonel. Who now stood next to the bed.

"Leaving."

"Sir . . ."

"I'm going home."

"I could call Hammond," Janet's frown deepened.

Jack's lips thin-lined. "And tell him what?"

As soon as her mouth opened, he spoke again. "No, Janet. I'm tired . . . I'm going home."

"Colonel, you win. But the general wants to see you first. Then my orders are for you to go home. Get some sleep. Despite the way you look, and the way I feel. I can't find anything more seriously wrong then some painful bruises and a really bad rash. General Hammond would have a good laugh if those were the reasons I used to keep you here overnight. But, I'd 'prefer' that you stay."

"Nope, nada, no way. I've saved the world again and for once I'm skipping your drafty hard beds where anyone can see my ass without half trying. I'm going home to the most comfortable mattress on the planet – my own. Tootles, Doc."

Both hands came up to hold Janet by the shoulders, keeping her from moving as he gingerly worked his way around her. Turning in place Janet watched as Jack's hand obscured the brief glimpse of that aforementioned ass. Slowly limping, the very vision of dog-tired, Colonel Jack O'Neill disappeared, headed for Hammond's office and the locker room. From the look of determination on his face his primary goals were some clothes that didn't require fingers as fasteners and keys that would allow him to drive home. His visit with Hammond he'd no doubt wedge in somewhere in the middle of those priorities.

Every fiber of Janet's instincts shrieked at her to stop him. But she had nothing. He was right; there was nothing really wrong with him. Maybe she had become too accustomed to him coming back on his shield. Maybe she didn't have a clue as to how to handle it when he came back holding it, even if he was half dragging it along.

Her eyes fell to his chart, two pages down was the corpsman's report. It still made her uneasy. She just couldn't figure out why.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Jack?"

"Sir!"

"No, don't get up, just an unofficial heads up," General George Hammond, Jack's boss and steadfast friend commanded as he commandeered a heavy wooden chair and dragged it up to sit in front of his 2IC's desk. It was, the general reflected, kind of a mirror image of their usual arrangements.

George studied the man, long enough to cause Jack to fidget under his assessing stare.

"Well, you don't look as bad as Doctor Fraiser painted you."

Jack chuckled, and Hammond smiled knowingly in return. They both knew just how mother-hen-ish the CMO could be. But the thought that she was seldom wrong galvanized the general into asking.

"How are you, Jack?"

"Fraiser is over. . ."

"Colonel." The use of his rank sobered and silenced his friend at the same time, "I need to know. Honestly. . . how are you?"

Jack sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I'm just tired, sir. And banged up pretty good. You've punched out a few times. You know what it can be like."

"Yes, Jack. I do, but I gave that up long before I reached your age. And even at twenty-three it felt like I'd been run over by a couple of tanks. You have to be hurting. How bad is it?"

Jack dropped his gaze to his desktop, intent on the empty 9-mm clip that was part of the sparse litter across a usually spotless desk, a sure sign that his friend felt the pressure on his privacy, and might even contemplate lying about his condition. George knew that would cross his mind, but also knew he'd never do it. Yet, every option would be considered and assessed by the keen mind of his second, he had no doubt of getting an honest answer.

"Crap."

"Jack. . ." Maybe he should have doubted, flashed across George's thoughts.

"Ah, sorry, sir. I feel like crap," Jack offered up a wane smile, Hammond could see him drop his 'I'm okay' act and let go enough for the pain and tiredness to show, until it was hidden once again by his scrubbing a hand across his face to replace the facade he normally wore.

"Son, you were on light duty before this little FUBAR, why don't you take some time and rest up?"

"Hmm, I could now that Bra'tac and Rya'c have left. Teal'c has offered to give Jonas his physical and hand-to-hand combat training. Carter's gonna take him through weapons training. Better her and I." Jack ginned evilly. "Not much to do until the 'gate gets here." He paused a beat. "And how is the rent-a-gate program progressing?"

"They're Russians. How do you think?"

Jack grimaced with distaste. He knew he should try to get along with them, in the interests of détente, blah, blah, blah . . . but really . . . "Their oxen died?"

George snorted. "Something like that, they see it as their duty to deliver it to our doorstep. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get clearance for a Russian military plane to fly into – let alone land – in the heart of the United States?"

"Pretty much impossible I'd say, sir," the colonel smirked.

"Astute assessment." Hammond nodded and half-smiled. "Luckily the President got involved. It should be at least eight days before it arrives at Peterson. Plenty of time for you to go home and get some rest."

"Sir . . ."

Hammond stood; he didn't want to order him. In fact, he didn't want to even pressure him. After all, the man had just saved all of their butts. . . again.

"Just think about it, Jack. Please."

"For you, sir. Yes."

Hammond was glad his back was to the man; he was having a hard time keeping a straight face. That was a typical O'Neill refusal if he'd ever heard one.

**oXo**

Jack groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, one arm outstretched to slap the snooze button on his alarm clock. His shoulder screamed in protest, his chest joined as backup percussion. With a pained grunt, he slowly pulled his arm back, the bruise burning all the way. That chore done, he peeled open one eye and squinted, the better to make out the red numerals on the clock. Oh seven hundred?

"Crap," he muttered. He never overslept, and certainly never this late – no matter the excuse, or how hard he'd partied – or worked – the night before. After twenty-some odd years in the Air Force, he was too well trained for that. His body clock automatically woke him at oh-dark-thirty – usually at around oh four hundred hours. Rain or shine, weekend or not. He only kept an alarm clock as a back up . . . not that he'd ever needed it in the past.

He closed his eyes and then opened them again, with the hope that he'd been mistaken. The numbers now read oh seven fifteen hundred hours. Not only had he not been mistaken, it was getting later by the minute – quite literally.

"Come on, airman, time to haul your sorry ass out of bed," he muttered as words of encouragement. Slowly, he tried to raise himself out of bed, and finally settled for rolling off the bed and onto the floor.

He sighed and scrubbed his face one-handed; the other was firmly planted on the carpeted floor as the prop that kept him upright. He leaned back against the mattress once his arm started trembling and threatened to give way and looked blearily around the room. His clothes still lay on the chair where he'd slung them.

As for his boots, they were nowhere in sight. It was just as well; they were backups for his drenched ones, the ones he no doubt would have to toss in the trash. Too soaked with seawater to salvage, so pickled they might have well been carved of stone. Well, he had backups for the backup, any military man who walked as far was he did would.

He managed to maneuver himself so that he was sitting on the bed next to the nightstand and reached for the phone to call the base. There was no way he'd make it in time for his scheduled meeting at oh nine hundred hours. And if he didn't call in, they'd think something was wrong and send somebody out to check. And Doc would use that as an excuse to stick him with more needles. That was something he wanted to prevent at all costs. He so did not like her needles. He was sore and stiff enough now as it was, for crying out loud. His poor carcass did not need any more damage than it already had, no thank you very much.

Narrowing his eyes to better concentrate on his task, with exaggerated care, he punched out the numbers and waited for the answer. "Stargate Command," the operator said.

"General Hammond, please," Jack replied as he ran his fingers across his chest, wincing when his bruises reminded him to be more careful.

"Hammond." The general's voice sounded gruff. It was likely that he hadn't been home at all.

"Good morning, sir."

"Jack? Where are you?"

"At home, sir. I just woke up," he paused. "I don't think I'll be able to make it for our meeting this morning."

"Are you all right?"

Jack grimaced. "Nothing that a couple days of sleep wouldn't cure, sir."

"I could send someone out to check on you," Hammond sounded worried.

"No," he snapped and then stiffened. "Sorry, sir. I'm fine . . . really." His last words were softer, more of a plea. "And I don't need anybody checking on me."

Hammond chuckled. "Well, if you're sure you're all right, I'll let you be. Why don't you take those few days off that we'd discussed? Everything is pretty much at a standstill until the Russians arrive with the 'gate."

"I'll do that, sir. And you might want to take your own advice, you know." Jack paused and then added. "Sir."

"Point taken, son. I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Yes, sir." He hung up the phone and sat there for a moment, hands propped on his knees as he tried to find the energy to make it to the bathroom. As if it were a signal, a twinge in his groin area reinforced this notion and he rose to his feet with a groan.

As he staggered toward the bathroom, he reflected that it was a good thing he'd convinced Hammond not to send anyone over to check on him. With his luck, it'd be the Doc and she would have a field day if she could see the way he was acting now. He was just getting too damned old for the rough rides anymore. Yep, just getting too old period, Jack.

By the time he had reached the door to the bathroom, his head started to spin and he paused for a moment, hands propped against the doorjamb, to allow the room to settle down. Then he continued on and sank down onto the porcelain stool to do his business.

Jeez, Jack. You must be pooped. You haven't sat to pee since you were too young to know better. Must be those pills of doc's – the ones for the rash? Yep, that was probably it.

His most pressing business taken care of, he limped to the sink and stood there, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bruises on his chest and shoulders were living up to Doc Fraiser's prediction at his last exam. The reddened areas were darker now, shading into mauves and purples. They didn't look near as painful as they were.

"Aw, to hell with it," Jack muttered to his reflection. Then, with one last look, he shook his head and turned around, his goal to reach his bed and the sleep he so obviously needed. He wasn't a young buck lieutenant anymore. No sirree.

**oXo**

"Do you know what your problem is? I'm right and you can't stand it." Rodney McKay's voice followed Major Samantha Carter as she hit the double doors of the science lab and kept going.

"I need a break . . ." she muttered between clenched teeth. "From work, from the SGC, and most especially from that arrogant, overbearing, self-important know-it-all ass named Rodney McKay."

Walter Harriman met her in the hallway and looked startled. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

"What?" She snapped. "Oh, I'm fine, just fine – despite what certain civilian scientists might say otherwise."

The sergeant's eyebrows climbed in surprise as he paused to speak to her. "McKay again?"

Shifting from foot to foot, Sam bit her lip and fingered the sleeve on her navy-blue fatigue shirt with her opposite hand. "Does it show?"

Harriman nodded, the overhead lights sparkling off his eyeglasses as he moved.

"Oh, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, ma'am. The man does have a way of getting under your skin – if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do." She smiled with embarrassment. "And thanks."

"For what, ma'am?"

"Oh, I don't know, for taking the time to listen?" She licked her lips nervously and looked at her feet. "I guess we've all been under the gun lately, haven't we?"

"Yes, we have, ma'am. And thanks to you, we lived to tell about it – again."

"Yeah, we did, didn't we?" Her grin blossomed into a smile that lit her blue eyes.

Harriman's eyes twinkled as he leaned in close and whispered. "And no thanks to McKay, right?"

"I heard that." The sound of McKay's indignant sarcasm carried amazingly well through the closed doors of the science lab and down the hallway.

"Good, you needed to," Sam shot back with a grin of triumph. "Because I'm right and you can't stand it."

Blessed silence followed her down the hallway and into the commissary. Once there, she headed for the chow line and grabbed a tray. She picked up a salad and was about to leave with it when some pumpkin pie– topped with whipped cream – caught her eye. Sam paused for a moment and then sighed and added it to her tray. After putting up with Rodney, she deserved it, she told herself firmly.

She'd already thought that she'd escaped his attention when he left the first time. But no, the Air Force in its questionable wisdom didn't provide a flight back to Russia, and then decided that since he was already here, he should be put to work – 'installing' the Russian 'gate. Now all he did was bellyache about being expected to do the work of a common technician.

Shaking that whole line of thought from her head, Sam added a cup of coffee to her tray and looked around the room for an empty table. She'd been so preoccupied with her own problems that she'd neglected to see who else was there. And with Teal'c still in mourning over his wife's death, Jack on light duty, and . . . she steered her thoughts away from completing that thought and instead, concentrated on her visual sweep of the room.

"Over here, Sam," Janet Fraiser called out and beckoned to her with a wave of her hand.

Sam smiled with relief and headed for her friend's table. What with the threat from Anubis, and Jack's narrow save from same, accompanied closely by Teal'c's triumphant return from destroying the weapon that caused the whole problem, she hadn't had the chance to talk with her friend much. Janet's brand of irreverent humor would be most welcome right now, Sam realized. Between the two of them, they'd probably be able to come up with a wonderfully devious and painful way of dealing with McKay. And it would probably involve lemons. The man should have been forced to pay his own way back to Russia.

"You look like you could use a break, Sam," Janet commented as she sipped from her coffee cup. "Salad and pie?"

"And pie . . . and don't say a word," Sam ground out.

"My, you do need that break, don't you," Janet replied. "Let me guess . . . McKay again?"

"How'd you guess?" Sam picked up her fork and stabbed her salad several times with it.

"I've met the arrogant prig, remember?"

Sam blushed and held her forkful of lettuce in mid-air. "Yes, you have, and he is, isn't he?"

"What? An arrogant prig?"

Sam nodded and waved her fork emphatically.

Janet waved her hand at Sam and ducked. "Hey, you're supposed to eat that stuff, not get it airborne."

The fork stopped in mid-air while Sam gaped. Then she set it down. "So help me, Janet, if that . . . arrogant prig says one more word . . ." her words trailed off as she sighed in exasperation.

"You'll what, Sam. Shoot him?"

"Don't tempt me."

"It's probably because he has a terrible crush on you," Janet said with a smile.

With an expression of distaste, Sam stabbed her fork into her salad again and then pointed it at Janet, a leaf of lettuce dangled from its tines. "You know, he wanted to watch me get dressed, don't you?"

"So I'd heard," Janet chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't deck him then." She smiled and her eyes twinkled with mischief. "He certainly deserved it . . . and I could've sold tickets to everyone that would've wanted to watch you clean his clock but good."

Janet's words didn't seem to register as Sam continued to attack her hapless salad. When she realized what she was doing, she took a deep breath and laid the fork down with an effort, captive lettuce and all. A single sprig stood at incongruous attention, a green flag of surrender that stood perpendicular to her tined utensil.

Her friend chuckled. "My, my, I haven't seen you this worked up in quite some time, Sam. Not since . . ." The unspoken name held suspended in the air and shattered their feeling of easy camaraderie.

Sam sobered. "Not since . . . I know, I miss him too."

Janet sobered and peeked over the rim of her coffee cup. "I just wish he would've given your Dad a chance to heal him, but I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"It's just not the same around here now. Even though Teal'c is back, he's been keeping to himself. The only time he comes out of his room at all is to workout in the gym or to eat. The colonel is . . . well, when he's not dodging Jonas he's . . . elsewhere." She cocked her head to one side in thought. "Well, I have been kept pretty busy with deciphering the results of the tests we ran on the cockpit module from the X-302. The colonel did drop in once . . ."

Sam leaned forward, her eyes fastened on her friend's face. "He's all right, isn't he?"

"What?" Apparently, Sam's sudden change of topic took the doctor by surprise.

"The colonel. He's still on light duty and seems, well – not himself lately."

Janet set down her cup and studied it. "There's only so much I can tell you, but then you know that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sam ventured and picked up her coffee cup to take a sip. "But it never hurts to ask." She picked up her fork and pried the mangled lettuce off its tines. "You would tell me if something was wrong, I mean, really wrong, wouldn't you?"

Janet took her time to answer and leaned toward her friend. "Have I ever kept anything from his team before?"

Sam looked down and licked her lips, suddenly embarrassed that she'd put her friend in such a position. "No, I guess not. Forget I brought it up."

"You mentioned the test results on the X-302. Was there anything interesting?"

Sam recognized the attempt to steer the topic into safer waters and grabbed it with both hands. "Now that you mention it, there was." Her fork sliced into the pie and transferred a piece to her mouth. Her eyes flickered shut for a moment of culinary ecstasy.

"Yes?" Janet prodded.

"According to the cockpit recorders, the 'gate very nearly exploded before the colonel could get it to the hyperspace window. As a matter of fact, some sort of energy discharge hit the cockpit just as he ejected."

"Oh, really?" Janet's eyes widened and her mouth opened in shock.

Sam nodded as she warmed up to her subject. "Yes, they first noticed it in Area 51 when a Geiger counter registered high levels of radioactivity when the cockpit was brought into the laboratory bay. Then, when I studied a piece of metal from the cockpit, it tested positive for radioactivity emitted from naquadria. When the energy surge from the 'gate struck the cockpit, it must have reacted with the naquadria in the hyperspace window generator somehow. I've already sent my preliminary findings to General Hammond."

Janet set her cup down with exaggerated care. "What did you just say?"

Sam wiped her mouth with her napkin and forked up another piece of pie with whipped cream. "What?"

"I'm not kidding, Sam. Did you just say that the cockpit module tested positive for the same kind of radioactivity that killed Daniel Jackson?"

"Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, that's what I was arguing with that arrogant prig about," Sam nodded and then her eyes widened. "Holy Hannah."

When she looked up, Janet was disappearing out the commissary door on the run.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Jack couldn't believe it; he figured he'd have at least two more days before anyone demanded his appearance. Hammond had said to take a few days off. Damn. He was just beginning to work the stiffness out of the bruises. That whole ride had knocked the stuffing out of him, he'd slept more than he'd slept in years and still felt tired. '_Getting old, Jack.'_

And why was he to report to the Infirmary?

Bet some butter-finger dropped his blood draw. Janet would have her needle collection out; as sure as his name was Jack O'Neill. And they'd all be primed and aimed for one target – his butt. Crap.

In deference to the bruised status of his shoulders he bumped the truck door shut with a hip and slowly limped across the tarmac to the entrance of Cheyenne Mountain.

Jack was grateful for the empty elevator cars, one on each of the two descending shafts that dropped him into the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain. Humming tunelessly, he slouched against the shiny wall and half-dozed for the trip.

Once the elevator doors opened, he pushed off from the back wall and limped into the hallway. Funny, but he'd never noticed how long that hallway was before. '_Nope, Jack. You aren't a kid anymore',_ he thought morosely.

Once he got to the Infirmary there seemed to be a lot of hustle and bustle going on. The last few days had put him out of the loop in regard to the roster of teams, so he wasn't sure what was going on. From the looks of it though, figured one of them must have had a hot mission. Maybe if he stepped in and wasn't immediately noticed he could slip out again.

'_Now, that's a plan'_, he thought with glee. He could say with a clear conscience that he had reported to the Infirmary. It wouldn't be his fault that they didn't have time for him once he got there. Besides he would just be in the way. If they really needed him, they'd find him – in the commissary eating cake – and out of range of Doc's needles.

Only he didn't expect to be found so soon. So much for Plan A.

"Colonel. Stop right there!"

The volume of those words from such a tiny woman made him flinch, and he scrunched his eyes shut. _'Duh oh.'_ At the sudden silence he chanced a peek from beneath one half-raised eye-lid. Why was everyone staring at him with their mouths open, like he'd just returned from the dead, or Netu – unexpectedly? The only movement was from the owner of the voice too large for such a tiny woman – Janet Fraiser.

She was streaking across the Infirmary straight for him, a Napoleonic Power Monger scud missile, with his name written in magic marker across its nose. Talk about shades of Dr. Strangelove.

"Somebody get the colonel a wheelchair. Move it people."

'_Wheelchair? What the hell for?'_ Jack brought up his hands; fingers spread and started to back away, only his ass hit the closed doors behind him. Trapped.

"Ah, what's up, Doc?"

Was this a foothold situation? Had he been called back to be absorbed, assimilated or eliminated? Or whatever this month's flavor of Billy-Bad-Ass alien preferred?

Janet stopped just short of knocking him down. A wheelchair materialized from nowhere beside her.

"Sir, let me help you into. . ."

"Whoa. Wheelchair. So not happening."

"Joyce, let's help the colonel to a bed."

Jack flattened himself against the wall, something was very wrong here. Unerringly, and still with a certain amount of pain, he raised his arm, hand ready to strike that conveniently located large red alarm button that adorned every conceivable wall of the SGC. He'd always been of the opinion that some lucky company made the Fortune 500 when the SGC was created.

"Stop!"

For the second time everyone – and it appeared that 'everyone' assigned to the Infirmary, plus a couple of platoons of SFs were present – froze.

"Sir?" Janet's voice cracked with concern, but she'd turned the volume down, way down. Smart woman.

"Scaring the colonel here. And the colonel is wondering just who you people are, and what planet you all come from?"

Fraiser took a step forward.

"Uh, uh," he sing-songed. "Explanation time, or. . ." and moved his hand closer to the panic button.

"You've been exposed to radiation," blurted out Janet, her hands made an abortive move towards her lips, like she hadn't meant to say what she'd said.

"Me? How?" He asked, never relaxing his command of the panic button. Jack was having a hard time believing this wasn't anything but a foothold situation. When would he have been exposed to radiation? For crying out loud, this was just plain crazy. Wasn't it?

"Let me get you settled and I'll explain," Fraiser looked hopeful. But hopeful as in: 'stupid earthling' or 'poor Colonel?'

"No. We'll do this my way. Clear out the personnel. Cause I'm feeling very pressured and my fingers are itchy," Jack wiggled his fingers over the button.

But the look on Fraiser's face changed his whole view of the situation. Would an alien – even in Fraiser clothing – look that unhappy about the idea that itchy had a literal meaning for him?

"Did you use the lotion, sir?"

Damn. He knew he was gonna wish it had been a foothold situation before this was all over with.

"Radiation?" His fingers drifted away from the red alarm button.

"Yes, from the Stargate."

"Carter said there was no radiation from the Stargate, it was just building up energy. No danger, except for the heat and the inevitable explosion; especially the explosion part," Jack was very sure of that information. Getting vaporized, but not fried, was on the menu. She was very good with all the little details like that. No radiation. Only . . . KABOOM!

The crowd was thinning out, nurses, orderlies, SFs, they were leaving; he'd never been able to discover just what kind of hand signals Janet used, but they were good.

He pushed away from the wall and limped towards her office. The pitter-patter behind him assured him she followed. Jack dropped into the chair just inside the door, leaned his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He was just too damned tired and beat up to experience an adrenaline rush for no good reason. They had damn well better be right. Oy!

His head jerked up at the touch of cool fingers against his forehead.

"How do you feel, sir?"

"Tired."

"You're not warm."

"Should I be?"

"We're. . . I'm not sure, sir."

"Not . . . What about that explanation?"

Janet rose from her crouched position on the floor next to his chair and pulled over the chair from the opposite side of the door to sit knee-to-knee with him. That more than anything set his alarms off. This was serious.

"We only just figured it out; and quite by accident – over lunch – Sam and I."

"You and Sam?"

"Yes, sir. We were having lunch, and she mentioned that the data recorders on the X-302 showed evidence of radiation. The same radiation that killed Daniel." Janet paused; Jack knew the pain of that loss showed on his face. Even though he knew his teammate hadn't really died, the pain was still there and came whenever someone mentioned him and he again realized Daniel was – for all intents and purposes – gone.

"From what Sam tells me, you were very lucky to have gotten away. Some of the release bolts were melted by the initiation of the chain reaction, the point at which the 'gate couldn't store any more energy. It became unstable and began to explode, ejecting a wave of radiation that may have reacted with the hyperspace window generator."

"At least that's Rodney McKay's theory. Sam's not real sure that happened; she favors the idea that the first radiation in an explosion involving naquadah or naquadria would throw off identical kinds of particles. They are basically the same mineral she says."

"I'd believe her," Jack replied. "She knows her stuff. McKay should stuff a sock in it."

He got a smile out of her with that quip. "So, I was micro waved a bit." He spread his arms wide and smiled, "What's the problem? I feel fine."

"It has to do with the type and dose of radiation. We're not really sure about everything – yet. But Sam believes that being so close to the 'gate when the first wave of particles were released that you most likely received a lethal dose."

"Lethal ya say." This was just getting better and better – NOT!

"It has to do with the particles. Large, slow and unstable. They couldn't travel far, their half-life is somewhere around a month or two . . ."

"That's good." _'Right? It sounded good. It had to be good,'_ he thought with growing dismay. _'This is not happening to me,'_ he gulped and struggled to pay attention to Fraiser's words. After all, his life might well depend on it.

"Ah, no sir. It's not. They will remain in whatever material they got stuck in and decay, giving off doses of destructive secondary radiation during that time; so even a small exposure is too much."

"This is what killed Daniel?" Jack shook his head as he tried to understand what she was saying – and to find a way to prove she was wrong. "But he died right away."

"Yes, sir. But he was exposed to a much, much larger burst of particles, and different, more immediately lethal ones. I'm sorry."

"So, I'm dying?"

"Yes."

"You're kidding. I feel fine."

**oXo**

Jonas had a method and it worked. Persistence won the day. Teal'c had become an undeclared ally in his campaign to atone for the tragedy that had unfolded on Kelowana. The undertaking of repayment of that debt was huge, one he knew he could never truly do justice to.

Becoming a member of SG-1 was a tiny part of his efforts. There he hoped to make a difference: for Daniel Jackson – who had died – and all those who knew and mourned him – and for his own planet, and all the unnamed planets under the domination of the Goa'uld. Jonas felt very obligated to carry on Daniel's work, and becoming his replacement seemed the logical thing to do.

But he was also wished to help fill the personal void Daniel's absence had created in the lives of this teammates, and friends. Only his persistence had revealed the true extent of that vacuum. And he was duly surprised that Colonel O'Neill – who never showed it – felt it more intensely than any of those who called Daniel Jackson friend.

The idea that he, Jonas, and the colonel could ever develop the close bond Jackson had had with O'Neill was ludicrous. But he would do what he could. And being there for the man, offering his help and support, even if shunned, would be his goal.

Perhaps – just perhaps – the man would someday forgive him. Not that he would ever forgive himself for allowing a total stranger to offer himself up for his people when he had been right there. But, if that forgiveness ever happened, it would be a gift to the forgiver, a balm to their soul, a healing of the loss he could have prevented – and hadn't.

Hearing that Colonel O'Neill had been exposed to the same radiation that Daniel Jackson had been set Jonas into motion for he knew the man would need the support of a friend. Unfortunately the colonel's closest one was now gone and it was his responsibility to try to fill in. All Jonas had to do was find the man. Hmmm. Teal'c had mentioned the colonel's fondness for cake. Perhaps that could be a starting point.

"Colonel."

O'Neill jerked around, startled. "Jonas."

Jonas smiled broadly. Finally he'd been able to get close enough to engage the colonel in conversation. Six previous times he'd spotted O'Neill, but being the busy man he was the colonel had dashed off before the native Kelowanian could even cross the room.

"Yes, Jonas. If you have some time I wanted to invite you to share cake with me."

"Cake?"

"I understand you like cake, and I hear the Commissary is serving it." He smiled broadly.

"Cake? At the Commissary? Tempting, but no can do. Busy. Very busy." The colonel's eyes slid sideways and away from Jonas, already focusing his next task. "Besides, you heard wrong. I detest cake. Now pie. That's different. But not just any pie mind you. It has to be Mud Pie."

"Mud Pie? Does the Commissary serve that?"

"Not that I've ever heard. It's a rare delicacy. We humans learn to make it at a very young age."

"So all humans can make it, but it's not served at the Commissary?"

"Yepper. That's the gist of it. Weird, huh?"

"I'm not sure. . . " Jonas replied, puzzled.

"Gotta go," Jack grimaced and rubbed his hands together with mock enthusiasm.

"Perhaps there is something else . . ."

"Sorry, gotta go," Colonel O'Neill disappeared behind the closing doors of the elevator. Their entire conversation had been at a fast walk down the corridor to the elevator.

"Why would Teal'c tell me he liked cake?" Jonas spoke to the empty corridor. '_I must have misunderstood.'_

Well, if he couldn't convince him to eat with him, maybe there was some task he could perform for him? And to discover what task needed performing he'd have to watch the colonel very closely and be nearby as much as possible as any good friend would do – as Daniel Jackson would have no doubt done.

**oXo**

"No, honestly. I feel fine. A little tired, that's all. Since when does that mean dying?"

Sam watched with great fascination as Colonel O'Neill slipped the cake-loaded fork passed past his lips. How they latched onto the metal and sucked the rich chocolate crumbs from it. Preventing her own mouth from opening as he slowly, oh so slowly withdrew the implement was almost overwhelmingly impossible. Her heart was beating like hummingbird's wings in her ears; and this line of thought had to end here.

"Yes, sir. You've mentioned that. And we did explain that the effects would not be immediate."

"So, how long do I have?"

Sam Carter refused to focus on the fork as it swung back up to forbidden territory, or at least the land that created forbidden fantasies.

Right now such fantasies held a sour edge to them. What good where they if the object of those fantasies ceased to exist? She'd already lost one friend – who just plain ceased to exist – unlike this time. This time there would be a cooling body to remind her of all the regrets of their vow to disregard their feelings for one another.

Damn.

'_You do have a penchant for pulling brilliant ideas outta your butt. . . Ah, head. Outta ya head. When we need them._'

He'd shocked her, as he had intended. Only which had been the most shocking, his not-so flattering delivery, or the complete confidence it so badly hid? He always knew what to say or do to get her on the right track, to cut to the root of the problem.

Many would regret the loss of that ability to make clear the murkiest of problems. But her main regret would involve never being shocked again. No man had ever been able to stop her in her tracks with just a few words. And this man had been doing it to her for the last six years.

"Carter?"

"Oh, sorry, sir. Just thinking."

He smiled broadly at that. She'd miss that too. She treasured each and every expression of pleasure he displayed for her.

"I'm guessing that they sent you to drag me back to those vampires in the Infirmary."

Sam smiled and nodded. They had. Teal'c had found him the last time, early this morning. She was relieved it hadn't been Jonas. That would not have been a pretty scene. Despite Jack's acceptance of him as part of SG-1, the colonel seemed very uncomfortable around Jonas. That made it the colonel's second escape since the afternoon before, the afternoon Janet had told him about the radiation poisoning, and just before Sam herself spent about an hour explaining the how and why again.

It was then that Jack had revealed a small detail that he hadn't bothered mentioning to the right people. She was so not going to miss reading any of his mission reports again. He was just way too good at telling the absolute minimum to anyone.

She and McKay had gone round and round. The initial particle discharge had created a lightning-like shockwave; blue lightning that had been so painful it had rendered him unconscious. But the good part was that they would be able to formulate some facts about his exposure to those particles.

The sticking point was the thin veneer of Trinium found on the command module of the X-302. Trinium that had to have originated with the thin leaves that formed the 'gate's iris, the same iris that would have minimized any particles that flowed in the colonel's direction.

McKay postulated that the iris had vaporized and offered no protection. She disagreed, if it hadn't the colonel would have already been dead – not sitting here eating cake – and turning it into an x-rated event that left her feeling all tingly inside.

She did have to agree that the iris had been damaged or even partially compromised. There was the evidence of it coating the module, but to her mind there wasn't enough clinging to it to be used as proof of loss of the complete iris.

This had been pooh-poohed as poppycock by an indigent, and 'never to be questioned genius' who'd deny in a nano-second to having ever admitted to being something less in the brains department than she.

Like either of them could do more than document the history of the event that took the life of this man whose only complaint was that he just felt tired. Who found it hard to believe that he was at death's door. She found that hard to believe herself. But Janet Fraiser, one of her few remaining close friends not taken by the reaper told her otherwise, and she knew Janet was as good at what she did as the colonel was at what he did.

"Do I hafta go back?" Jack asked plaintively.

Sam smiled, so hoping that her melancholy didn't show. She didn't want him to suffer any more than he had too; and she so wanted to be able to pull a solution out of her 'butt.' Only, this time, she wasn't the one person who had a chance of pulling that off.

'_Janet, please be an egghead.'_

**oXo**

Jack went without any further argument. He'd put off the inevitable long enough, and if he were honest with himself, and he avoided that whenever possible – he knew he couldn't avoid it any longer. The itching was driving him nuts. Nuts enough to 'want' to go to the Infirmary. Nuts enough to go there with Jonas if he had to. He shivered at the very thought of that happening – him and Jonas – Brrr.

Carter had seemed a trifle disappointed that he didn't put up more of a struggle. But she'd get over it. She always did. She was a soldier first, a scientist . . . and a woman. Woman ranked somewhere after the first two. On _their_ scale, not his. He smirked.

With time, she would get over it – and him – and keep doing what she did best, pulling yet another miracle out of her ass . . . head . . . saving his world's bacon long after the jets did their final missing-man flyover his grave and the flag off his coffin was folded and presented to his team.

As he walked into the Infirmary, he reinforced his mask of indifferent tolerance; there was no sense in not giving the Doc the full treatment. She'd be suspicious if he didn't. And all he really wanted was a little relief from this damned rash. And maybe, just maybe, Janet's domain was a Jonas-free zone.

She met them at the door, all bluster and fury in a pint-sized package wearing a white lab-coat.

"I'm back," he sing-songed and spread his arms wide. "Ya miss me?"

"Where have you been, sir?"

"They had cake," he replied as if that statement explained everything.

Carter had dropped behind but spoke up, "If you don't need me, I have an experiment to tend to, before a certain self-proclaimed genius ruins it."

Jack turned and smiled; one hand waved her out. "Yes, by all means, experiment, hypothesize . . . emasculate McKay." He paused a beat as if he'd just realized what he'd said. "Hey! Can I come with?"

Unfortunately she had long since fled the Infirmary. He wouldn't be in Rodney's shoes for the world.

He turned his attention to the doctor who was tapping her foot with impatience. "Me? I'll be here . . . laying around in the Infirmary, getting stuck with needles."

"Right this way, sir. Your private room is waiting," she positioned himself on his six, probably to prevent any further escape attempts.

"What? No wheelchair ride this time?"

She was at his elbow in a flash, all hovering concern. "Do you need one, sir?"

Jack rolled his eyes; she was way too easy. "No, I do not need one. Still feel fine." He licked his lips and grimaced. "A little tired, but fine."

He preceded her into the room to stand by the bed and eyed it with distaste, reluctant to occupy it. The way he figured it, there would be plenty of time for that . . . later. For now, though, he would stay on his feet and out of the Infirmary as much as possible.

It didn't help that his teammate, his friend, Daniel, had died of the same danged thing that was slowly eating him alive not that long ago. And although Doc hadn't put him in the same room that Daniel had died in, it was still all too eerily familiar. And he so was not ready to go there, not now, not any time soon. Not if he had any say about it. But then, that's what this was all about . . . wasn't it? And according to Doc Fraiser, the bed in front of him was gonna be the last one he ever laid down in, as in his death bed, meeting up with the Grim Reaper, pushing up daisies, shuffling off to Buffalo and the fat lady was warming up in the wings to sing his swan song.

He didn't figure on any last minute saves either. Not that he'd let the Tok'ra try to heal him – or God forbid – offer him a snake in the head in exchange for putting off his one-way trip to meet Saint Peter – or in his case, Lucifer himself. And forget a sarcophagus; so not doing that either.

And as for going the way that Daniel had. Let's face it. While Oma had been 'Johnny-on the-spot' to offer his friend the chance to ascend, that was not an option for Jack. For one thing, he knew he did not have the credentials to join the glowy club, not that they would be foolish enough to offer it to him anyway. He was no Daniel – a man who had somehow managed to keep the forthright naiveté of a child. He was just Jack, cantankerous and cranky with a soul as black as the inside of a closet at midnight – a man who had sent plenty of other souls to the hereafter to wait for him – along with his only son, Charlie.

Fortunately, for him, Fraiser seemed to realize how he felt and was willing, for now, to give him a little latitude as far as where – and how – he spent his last days at the SGC. He'd escape her clutches in the Infirmary for a couple of hours before she sent someone, usually someone from his team, to reel him back in for a check-up. And so it went.

He snorted, so much for that plum assignment that the President had offered him. Not that it was still on the table, what with the Russian 'gate on the way and all – even if it was taking the slow boat from China – just his luck.

Janet closed the door behind them and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know the drill, sir. Have a seat and take off your shirt so I can examine you."

"You already did that earlier today. What do you expect to find?" He was content to play out their old rivalry for all it was worth. At least he could do that, for now, but later . . . He shook his head and banished those evil forebodings from his mind.

She stepped closer, her face softening with sympathy. "I know this is hard on you, sir. But let me do my job, which is to keep you alive and kicking for as long as possible."

He shrugged and sat on the bed, and scratched his chest, then winced with pain and rubbed his shoulder. "To tell you the truth, Doc, I have been feeling a little . . . weird lately."

"Weird, sir?" he had her attention. "What do you mean by weird?"

He stared at a point on the opposite wall that had suddenly become very interesting to him, avoiding what he would see in her eyes. Concern. . . and pity. Her concern he could live with, he was used to it – that very trait was what made her so good at her job; it was the pity that he could do without.

"Oh, you know. . . weird." He raised his hands and then let them drop onto his thighs, the slap of his palms sounded loud in the small room. He sighed as his voice took on a plaintive, almost scared tone. "It's kind of hard to explain, Doc. And I itch like crazy."

Pursing her lips in obvious concern, she stood in front of him and intentionally blocked his view of the opposite wall. "Itchy? Oh, well, I can check into that itch during the exam. Now, sir – strip."

He smirked and fingered the bottom hem of his black t-shirt. "I love it when you talk dirty, Doc."

He drew the shirt up over his head and laid it on the bed beside him. "There, ya satisfied?"

Her gasp drew his attention like road kill draws flies. Her eyes were wide as one hand covered her mouth.

"What?" For once his confusion was real, because she wasn't looking at where the itch was. Not even close.

"Sir, your shoulder . . . it's bleeding."

He rubbed his shoulder, the same spot he'd rubbed before. . . and gazed at his fingers with incomprehension. They were red with blood – his blood. "What's going on?"

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Major Janet Fraiser, CMO of Stargate Command, would never have considered herself the egghead that Sam pinned her hopes on, but she knew of some colleagues who could be considered as such. And it was to them that she resorted in this instance.

She'd never breathed a word to Jack, Sam or Teal'c, but Daniel Jackson's death had started a small, but select research group at Area 51. Their main mission was not only to study the effects of the radiation on his body – but also to find a cure. Thanks to her, they had in their possession blood and tissue samples of their mutual friend – her friend.

Originally, Janet had taken the samples in an effort to stem Daniel's rapid decline. She'd wished she'd never taken them at the time, because in the chaos of his miraculous transformation those samples had found their way out of the SGC. Hammond had tried to prevent their transfer, and she had 'volunteered' to have them accidentally destroyed.

Only Hammond's direct order to stand down had stopped her from destroying the samples. And if General Hammond were to walk into her office sometime in the next hour or so she would kiss him silly for that.

As much as the idea of having a part of Daniel wind up as some shadowy chain of experiments sickened her, the unexpected discovery that some possible good may have been gleaned from them caused her to feel a euphoric giddy joy.

And to think she had Rodney McKay to thank for this sudden good fortune. As it was, she had mixed feelings about the man. As a person, she couldn't stand him, his arrogance grated on her last nerve. But even so, the arrogant prig had his moments. Moments in which, much as she hated to admit it, he was a godsend. This was undoubtedly one such instance.

In his attempt to disprove Sam Carter's theories about the sequence of events that had occurred to the Stargate prior to Colonel O'Neill sending it rocketing off into outer space via the highly unstable hyperspace window, he'd discovered one of the scientists at Area 51 was not only a physicist, but also a medical doctor that specialized in the effects of radiation on the human body. Janet had taken classes from this man during her internship. This same man was someone she respected – and could trust.

Then to find that this same man headed the team that possessed the only earthly remains of one Daniel Jackson was enough to bowl her over. And how did she know this? This same respected doctor had just called her – at the behest of said prig – with the best news she could wish for.

It seemed he had heard about the radioactivity found in the remains of the X-302 – and its previous occupant – Colonel Jack O'Neill. And all thanks to that arrogant, egotistical, self-centered man she could cheerfully strangle on a good day – provided Sam didn't beat her to it.

If it had been anybody but the odious Rodney McKay, she would've chased him down and kissed him. However, as it was that self-same prig, McKay, she'd settled for thanking him, profusely. And mentally cancelled her order for a gallon of lemonade to be sent to McKay's lab station. After all, she told herself, she was a doctor, and had sworn to cause no harm . . . even if he so richly deserved it.

Even now, she carried the results of that research in the folder she hugged protectively to her chest; results that she hoped would prevent Colonel Jack O'Neill's death by ridding his body of the radioactive particles that was slowly killing him. Unlike Daniel, he could – and would be cured.

She'd spurned the idea of using the phone to tell General Hammond this good news. No, some things needed to be said face-to-face. And this was one of those times. As it was, it took everything she had to wipe the huge grin from her face.

Although she was tempted to stop by Sam's lab first, she didn't. General Hammond was her commanding officer and as such needed to be kept informed of everything that directly impacted the personnel that he commanded.

Just outside Hammond's open office door, she took a deep breath and knocked. "Sir?"

"Come in, Doctor." He closed the laptop he had in front of him and waved one hand at her. "What's on your mind?"

Dr. Fraiser nibbled her bottom lip and stepped to his desk. "It's about Colonel O'Neill, sir."

"Have a seat." Hammond's face fell, "What's he done this time? Is he still ducking out of the Infirmary?"

She sat down, back ramrod straight in the chair. "No, sir. That's not it." She paused and leaned forward a little. "I mean, yes he has, but that's not what I wanted to see you about."

Hammond cocked his head and sighed. "I've found sometimes that it helps to start at the beginning. Why don't you try that, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir. You're right. . . at the beginning," she licked her lips nervously and pondered why it was so hard for her to give him good news. Just a couple of days ago, she'd given him the worst news she possibly could, that a trusted subordinate and mutual friend was dying. And now, she was fumble-fingered and tongue-tied worse than any med student called to task by the Head Surgeon on morning rounds.

She focused on the man sitting in front of her and took a deep breath. "I just got off the phone with a former colleague of mine from Area 51. He's done some research on the effects of radiation on the human body. In fact, he based it on tissue samples from Dr. Jackson."

There, she'd done it, and she couldn't help but wonder what had been her problem? What's more, she had his full attention.

"And?" the general's eyes narrowed with suspicion; apparently he'd had his own reservations about turning over the samples too_. 'Hmm'_, she thought. _'That sheds a whole new light on this whole matter.'_

"He thinks he can help us, sir." She allowed her triumphant grin to show and her eyes lit with the fiery light of a medical practitioner who knows she has just cheated death . . . again.

"Help us? You mean, Jack?"

"Yes, sir. He believes he knows how to treat the colonel's symptoms."

Hammond sat back and rubbed his chin, his suspicion showing through with his every move. "I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Doctor . . .but I've got to ask. To what end? I want to save his life as much as anybody, but I won't have a good man used as a . . ." his eyes left hers as he searched for the right word to use. " . . . a guinea pig in an experiment, either."

"It wouldn't be like that, sir. I've reviewed his methods, and they are sound. I think we should try it." Janet sat on the edge of her chair, putting her hands on his desk. "It's the only chance the colonel has. And to be quite frank, sir; what do we have to lose? Or should I say, what does Colonel O'Neill have to lose?"

Hammond sighed and looked away for a moment before meeting her eyes; his own held a touch of sadness. "I see your point." He paused as if to weigh the risks. After all, it was ultimately his decision. If he said no, her hands would be tied. And the life of a man was in the balance.

After what seemed like forever to Janet, the general nodded. "You have a go to do whatever it takes." He smiled and some of the sorrow she'd seen in his face dropped away. "And just how did this colleague make the connection between his research and Jack's medical condition?"

"It was Rodney McKay's doing, sir," she smiled ruefully. "As much as I hate to admit it, we owe him, big time."

Hammond laughed, the first time she'd heard that wonderful sound in what seemed like forever. "Just when I think I know the man, he goes ahead and does something half-way decent." He shook his head. "Well, in that case, maybe I should postpone his being exiled to Siberia for a bit."

"You might at that, sir." She paused. "There is one more thing, sir."

Hammond raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"Despite his worsening condition, the colonel did manage to get out of his room, so if you could have him sent to the Infirmary as soon as possible . . ."

"Of course, I'll have him sent right over, in fact, I might just escort him myself. This is news he needs to hear and I want him to hear it from you, face-to-face."

"Yes, sir."

"You're dismissed, Doctor. It seems to me that you've got some preparations to make before I deliver Jack to your tender mercies."

He picked up the phone as she stood and half-turned to leave. "That I do, sir. And thank you!"

"No, Doctor. Thank you for refusing to give up on our patient, even though he can be a royal pain in the ass, if you know what I mean."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir. I most certainly do."

Hammond punched some numbers. "Hello, security? I need Colonel O'Neill brought to my office yesterday. Yes, he escaped again." He paused. "Good, I'll expect to see him here then." He hung up the phone and smiled. "See? That's done. I'll hand-deliver him to the Infirmary myself."

**oXo**

Hammond had made a point of keeping abreast of all the developments in his 2IC's physical condition. The radiation poisoning was beginning to show, those stripe bruises had begun to heal, then slowly began to degrade into two strips of decaying flesh, leaking fluids and blood. Only pressure bandages, changed twice a day, controlled the seepage. And that rash was rapidly heading in the same direction. Stronger drugs were being used to control the maddening itch O'Neill had reported to Fraiser.

The man was being given every drug known to help combat the worsening damage, and to limit it. Jack quipped that he was being turned into one of Harlan's robots with all the injections and solution bags he was asked to endure as IVs. No wonder the man was hard to 'keep'in the Infirmary. Well, at least he never went far, the Commissary, his office or just to nap in his own bunk on base.

In the time before Jack was delivered to his office, George had made a few phone calls of his own. Not that he didn't trust the instincts of his CMO – but he did have a few contacts to call on – avenues of approach that were barred to one of her rank. And call on them he did.

He'd managed to acquaint himself with the record of this doctor friend of Fraiser's that by strange coincidence seemed to have all the answers they so badly needed. His contacts had told him enough about the man and his work ethic to satisfy some of his initial qualms about placing the life of his 2IC in his hands.

According to his contacts, the Doctor was brilliant, which was a given considering where he worked and who he worked for. Not only that, he had an excellent work record. But most important of all, unlike so many of his co-workers at Area 51 he had an agenda – at least on the surface – that seemed to go no further than the saving of lives – and now the life of Colonel Jack O'Neill.

Considering where the research was based, and the trouble they'd previously had from the crooks in the NID running it, men who were as crooked as a dog's hind leg, mind you, he would have been remiss in his duty as the commander to do anything less. And he took his duties and responsibilities very seriously, because he knew from personal experience how a bad commander could affect the personnel placed under him. How a bad CO could quite literally end the career, not to mention the very life, of the personnel assigned to his unit.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this man was a horse of a different color and just one of the new faces there that the SGC could trust.

From what he could glean from his phone calls, the theory behind the compound was that naquadah was a great attractor. Of naquadah and naquadria, its closet relative. So powerful was the attraction to join the stable mineral that the unstable particles were like planets pulled into the black hole their sun had become.

In order to be used medically, the naquadah had to be pulverized into almost single molecules of the mineral and then suspended in a fluid for delivery – both a tricky and delicate procedure. After that was done, it would be airlifted to the SGC.

Jack would have to drink the stuff in increasingly larger doses until they discovered his tolerance of the metal. Traveling along his digestive tract would allow the largest amount of access to his circulatory system outside his lungs. There the unstable particles would be drawn to the inert compound, bonded and then excreted through the natural body elimination process.

George grinned as he remembered his own initial reaction to the long-winded techno-babble his contact had spouted over the phone. "You mean Jack will drink the stuff and then shit it out?"

"Yes," his contact's strangled laughter was music to Hammond's ears. "You could put it that way, George."

"Yes, I would, wouldn't I" George answered and then grinned. "As long as it works, that's all that matters to me."

A quick check with Major Carter reassured Hammond that there would be no further danger of radiation. According to Major Carter and Rodney McKay, naquadah was the only mineral known that could be handled this way. This method could not be used for the other radioactive elements currently known to Earth science. What a shame.

George couldn't get over Jack's whole attitude about the mess he was in though. What with his repeated escapes from the Infirmary, all the while he only complained of feeling tired. At times like this he had trouble understanding the colonel. Most anyone else would have stayed in bed, close to the only place where a cure might originate. But this man did the total opposite, made himself scarce from those who would do anything to save his life. Either it was the bravest of positive thinking George had ever witnessed or the toughest case of denial. Deciding which was beyond him at the moment.

An SF stuck his head in to announce the colonel's arrival. The man who shuffled in did indeed look tired, but not as ill as he knew him to be. The stiff way he held his torso was the only indication of the fact that he dare not move for fear of restarting the bleeding in his shoulders that began just the day before.

"Jack," Hammond stood to greet him, besides he had every intention of delivering him to the Infirmary as promised. "Let's take a walk."

"Where we going, sir?"

"I think you know where, son."

"Oh. Can't talk you outta of this, can I?"

"No."

"Where you lead. . ." Jack extended one arm in invitation, but the gesture held none of the fluid grace that usually accompanied every movement the man made.

Hammond chuckled and fell into step beside his 2IC. Jack spoke first. "Any progress on the 'gate, sir?"

"It's still in transit. The Russians are taking their own sweet time delivering it."

"Go figure," Jack grunted. "Did you hear that the staff is planning on throwing a farewell party for McKay . . . 'after' he leaves for Siberia?"

"I'd heard something about it." George kept himself posted on the latest rumors generated by the SGC grapevine. From what he'd heard, the size and description of the party grew with each telling.

"I heard there'd be cake. Lots of cake." Jack smiled. "Yep, that's what I heard all right."

"From what I heard they're going to have cake, pie, and ice cream. Along with dancing girls and a brass band," George added. "And that a certain female Major would lead it." He paused and then grinned. "The peanut gallery is evenly divided as to the identity of the female major. I put my money on it being Major Carter."

Jack grunted and said nothing, just leaned against the far wall of the elevator with a pained expression that flitted briefly across his face, so quickly was it there and gone that Hammond wondered for a moment if he'd imagined it.

But the fact that Jack had nothing to say about it set George's mental alarm bells off. Under ordinary conditions, his snarky 2IC would have had some gem of a comment to make. But today . . . nothing. George thanked his lucky stars, and whichever guardian angel watched over Jack that they had found a cure for him. Now all they had to do was get the cure and Jack together.

'_One thing at a time, George,'_ he cautioned himself. _'First you have to get him to the Infirmary, and get him to stay there.'_

The elevator seemed to take forever to reach their floor, but at last the doors dinged open. Because of his concern, he allowed Jack to precede him out of the car and into the hall outside their destination, the man didn't look right. In fact he seemed to stagger rather than walk. When the colonel's arm shot out, with an accompanying stifled moan of pain, to steady himself against the wall, it was proof positive that something was very wrong.

"Jack!" Hammond closed with his friend in time to help ease him down the wall to sit on the floor.

"Sir. I don't feel so good. Sorry."

O'Neill's body immediately went limp in George's hands. He thanked his lucky stars that he had been with the man when this happened and so close to where he could get immediate help. Carefully he allowed Jack to slump to the floor before bounding up to barrel though the Infirmary doors.

"Hey people, I've got a sick man out here!" he bellowed and then stood back to allow the nurses and technicians to stampede past him to Jack's aid.

In no time Jack was under Doctor Fraiser's expert care. Her personnel were a pleasure to watch as Hammond stood well out of the way and let her staff do the jobs they were so good at. With the ease of long practice, they wheeled Jack into his room and got him settled in bed.

Hammond felt like a third wheel, useless in his CMO's domain, and took care to stay out of the way as he followed the colonel's entourage to his private room and stood just outside the door. There, he could monitor any progress being made, without being in the way.

From his vantage point, Hammond could see Jack had regained consciousness and seemed to be talking to the doctor. Even from this distance the customary use of hands with words seemed strained and not without effort. The man soon subsided into a motionless repose as the privacy curtains were drawn tight around his bed.

George Hammond was not used to being ignored, but this was not within his command purview, so he was content to wait. He knew his CMO well enough to realize she would report to him as soon as she could.

And it wasn't long until the diminutive commander of the Infirmary finally pushed through the curtains concealing his ill 2IC and stood before him, stethoscope draped around her neck.

"Sir."

"How is he, Doctor?"

She sighed and pursed her lips. "Not too good at the moment. I'm relieved to say it's not acute radiation sickness. But it is the first stage of it. His immune system has been compromised and he seems to have contracted the stomach flu."

"Then . . . this is good news?"

"In a way, yes, sir."

"Speaking of that, have you told him about the treatment, Doctor?"

"Not yet, sir. I wanted to finish my exam first. Then I'll tell him the news." She grinned as some of her excitement resurfaced.

"He could certainly use some good news right about now," Hammond grinned back at her, "And what's the status on this special treatment you told me about?"

"The compound," Fraiser consulted her watch. " . . .Took off from the labs at Area 51 about twenty minutes ago. We should have it in a couple of hours."

George sighed heavily; he hated waiting, but was willing to endure it if he had no other choice. On the other hand . . . "Is there anything I can do?"

From her answering smile, he knew he'd hit pay dirt and her next words merely confirmed it. "If you could smooth the delivery of the compound – that would be a great help. A general does have ways of . . . shall we say?" She paused dramatically with a twinkle in her eye, "Hurrying things along," her grin turned into a knowing smirk. An expression that eased Hammond's worry more than her claim that Jack was just sick with the ordinary run-of-the mill stomach flu.

At least it wasn't the kind of sickness they all knew would eventually happen, provided nothing was done about it. Not yet, anyway. There was still time to prevent the death of a fine officer and that lightened his heart considerably.

"Yes, there is. Thank you, Doctor. Keep me informed." With those parting words, George was already headed for his office and a phone call to a friend – a friend who just happened to be the top man at Peterson. They had choppers, and choppers were faster than land transport. Time to call in a marker or two, or three – as many as it took.

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"All of it, Colonel," Doctor Fraiser warned in a sharp tone from somewhere outside the room.

'_Dang'_, Jack's hand hovered over the plastic urinal and then reversed direction, _'Doc must have the ears of a bat.' _

The full cup sloshed as he held it away from his nose. Apparently she had heard Jack's attempt to dump half the glass of stuff he was supposed to drink into the urinal. That bright red container's rasp across the table that straddled his bed had been like a shout in a quiet church during prayer.

"But it tastes like crap," Jack whined, his mouth wrinkled in distaste.

Unexpectedly acidic bile surged up his throat and threatened to erupt between his lips. He gulped and half-choked as he slammed the glass down onto the table over his lap, the viscous liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

Jack ignored it; all of his attention was focused on keeping what little of the stuff he had already swallowed 'inside' his body. God knew it tasted bad enough the first time around; he didn't even want to think about the second time. He breathed shallowly through his mouth as he'd been taught and swallowed convulsively_. 'Breathe in your nose,'_ he gasped, _'breathe out your mouth.'_

"Colonel?" The staccato tappity-tap of Doc's high heels on the tiled floors of the Infirmary intruded on his single-minded focus and heralded the imminent arrival of the ruler of this particular corner of the SGC. For once, he was mighty glad of it.

Now bent double, his head rested on the table by his cup, one hand cradled his much abused stomach, the other clapped tightly over his mouth, he groaned and stiffened when he felt cool fingers on his back.

"That's it, sir." She continued to rub the back of his neck. "Breathe slowly out your mouth."

He groaned again but didn't pull away from her comforting touch. "Does that feel better?" She asked in a worried tone.

He didn't trust himself to speak so he just nodded and risked taking his palm away from his mouth, no longer feeling the need to prevent himself from vomiting up what little of the compound he'd managed to swallow thus far.

As her fingers continued to rub his back and neck, he dared to raise his head off the table and leaned into her touch, savoring the rarity. "Thanks, Doc," he moaned. His tongue flicked over parched lips in a futile attempt to moisten the chapped surface.

He started to lie back against his pillows, but stiffened as a cramp rippled across his abdomen, he gritted his teeth – and clenched his buttocks – hard – all to no avail. Crap – literally – lots of crap – right where crap had no right to be.

"Sir?'

As a noxious odor suddenly permeated the room, Jack averted his eyes and shifted uncomfortably as a crimson stain crept up from under his hospital gown, up his neck and covered his face.

With both palms flat on the sheets beside him, he tried to lift himself away from the brownish liquid that crept from his backside. "Sorry," he muttered, his eyes on the foul mess, "Could've sworn I was housebroken a long time ago."

"Not to worry, sir. We'll have you cleaned up in a jiffy." She stepped to the door and beckoned to someone outside Jack's sight. "We could use some help in here. While you're at it, you can bring some clean sheets with you."

A couple of nurses came back with her and she stood back as they took in the situation. "When you've gotten the colonel comfortable, report back to me."

Yes, ma'am," they replied as they began to clean Jack off. "And, sir? I'll get you something for the nausea and diarrhea."

"Thanks, Doc," Jack muttered, totally mortified but relieved that they were taking care of the mess he'd made of his bed. He wanted to help, really he did. But he felt like he'd just ran a fifteen-mile road march, with a backpack full of rocks, with Teal'c slung over his shoulder to boot. Oy!

The last time he'd been this sick, he'd been hung-over from an all-nighter with Ferretti's jarheads. At least then he'd had a good time to show for his misery. This time . . .

He avoided looking his caretakers in the eye; it was easier for all of them that way as they stripped the odiferous gown from his body.

"Let us do the work, sir," directed Joyce as they prepared to help him out of bed and onto a nearby chair. She turned her back to pick up the new gown and her companion turned to help her.

"No, I can do it, really." Jack muttered half to himself as he tried to summon up the energy to get out of bed. No problem – right? He'd been doing it for years.

Jack sighed as he swung his feet to the side and stood by his bed. _'Halfway there, Jack. Just a little bit more and you'll be on your feet. No problem.'_

Yep, that was what he planned to do. However, somehow, the directions he sent from his head got sidetracked someplace between his brain and his legs. He made it as far as having his feet flat on the floor, but then his forward momentum carried him up off the bed . . . and pitched him onto his hands and knees as that pesky knee gave way, shrieking pain all the way to the floor. .

"Colonel!" Twin voices chorused.

"Crap," Jack muttered as he struggled – and failed – to lock his elbows to prevent him from kissing the Infirmary tiles. For a moment, he stayed there, swaying like a one-legged man in a strong wind, his crappy bare ass waving in the wind as the nurses darted forward to help him. Then, gravity won and he toppled over onto his side, where he laid there – panting with exertion. Naked as the day he was born. _'Oh, for crying out loud could this get any worse?'_ Jack thought pessimistically.

"Oh, did I come at a bad time?" Jonas stood at the door, his customary cheese-eating grin turning into a look of horrified surprise.

"Ya think?" Jack glared at him from his position on the floor, refraining from acknowledging the hot coal he laughingly referred to as his knee in front of his unwelcome audience. _'You had to think it, didn't you, Jack? And sure enough, just when you thought that things couldn't get worse, the "aw shit fairy" took a dump all over your sorry ass.'_

Dr. Fraiser appeared behind Jonas who seemed frozen in place. "The colonel is not receiving visitors now," she said firmly as she grabbed his arms and bodily moved him out of the doorway and into the hall. With decisive movements, she closed the door firmly behind her.

Then she turned to her nurses who had gathered at the fallen man's side and were attempting to help him to the chair.

"How did this happen?" Dr. Fraiser spat to her staff. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

"No, ma'am," the nurses concentrated on settling Jack safely in the chair and then stood, their eyes wandering across everything except Janet.

"Lay off, Doc. They were trying to help, but I wanted to do it myself," Jack muttered, his eyes studying his bare toes and the brown gunk smeared there. "I figured I could at least get out of bed on my own. Guess I was wrong."

"I realize you're sick and can't do things like you'd like to do, but it would go so much easier if you'd just let us do our jobs, sir. It's what we're trained to do," Joyce pleaded; her eyes bright with unshed tears. Then she turned away and picked up the gown that had drawn her attention before. "Would you like me to help you put this on . . . or can you manage on your own?"

Jack swallowed hard, his own emotions perilously close to the surface. "If you wouldn't mind, I could use the help." Besides, attempting to stand now would expose places that he wanted only Carter to see – someday – he hoped. And those private places had seen way too much daylight lately as it was.

Joyce draped the gown over his exposed back and helped him up and into the chair in stages, stages that kept 'Carter Territory' hidden from prying eyes, or well-meaning but totally inept new team members like Jonas. _'That nosy alien was danged lucky I'm so sick and tired, otherwise, I'd strangle the sucker,'_ Jack thought with irritation _'And take great pleasure in doing it too.' _

He wondered just how much of an eyeful his newest alien teammate had gotten before Fraiser tossed him out? Probably way too much, but then again, it served him right for barging in like he had. Jack knew the last thing, as team leader, he needed was for that butinski to get a gander of his bare backside covered in crap. He groaned. _'This was so not my day. When I got the call from the head guy, my Commander in Chief no less, I thought things were finally looking up. What the hell happened?' _

While Jack was busy with his thoughts, the other nurse busied herself with bundling up the dirty sheets and placed them inside a waiting hamper. Then she and Dr. Fraiser set about placing clean linen on the mattress.

Jack couldn't bring himself to lift his eyes from the floor. He didn't want to see the pity in the eyes of the women busily cleaning up after his poop-fest. He was just too tired to cope with that right now. One hand unconsciously kneaded at the slow burn in hi knee.

He didn't feel like crying often, but he felt way too close to blubbering his eyes out right then. And if he'd been alone, he'd probably be doing just that – either that or getting royally shit-faced. _'Wait . . .no, bad example. I'd be getting drunk on my butt. Yeah, that's what I'd be doing,'_ he consoled himself.

But that particular coping mechanism was not in the cards at the moment, so he'd just have to do the best he could, and hope and pray that crap didn't continue to happen, or if it did, it happened when his butt-cheeks were sitting on the crapper. '_Jeez, Jack, at the rate you're going, they were going to have to put you in Depends by the end of the day.'_

With two of them working together, the bed was soon ready for him. This time, Jack waited and allowed the nursing staff to assist him from the chair into the bed. After the nurses had left the room, Janet stood next to Jack and cleared her throat. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell, sir?"

"Only my pride, and since that's been taking a beating lately anyway, there was no harm done," Jack replied softly, his arms cradling his sore stomach.

"I'm sorry that Jonas saw you like that. I'll have orders posted so that it doesn't happen again."

Jack nodded, his gaze focused on the opposite wall.

"In the meantime, I'm going to install an IV, sir."

Jack winced. "Yeah, whatever."

"I was hoping to avoid that, but since you're continuing to lose so much fluid," Janet paused as Jack rolled his eyes and his mouth thinned to a single line of self-disgust. "I don't have a choice."

Her grin took Jack by surprise and he tightened his hold on his roiling stomach, but said nothing.

"On the good side, if you have an IV, I won't have to inject the anti-nausea medicine into your butt, just your IV port."

"Well, that is certainly a plus," Jack muttered sarcastically, wondering how it could possibly get any worse. Somehow he knew it would. "Aren't we Little Mary Sunshine today?"

Tiredly, he flung an arm over his face and tried to ignore how public his suffering was. The other hugged his sore stomach muscles protectively. All the while his leg restlessly sought a position to satisfy the insistent ache of his abused knee. At least the itching had stopped – for the moment. It had been so constant; he almost missed its absence. As for the pressure bandages on his bleeding shoulders, they had escaped getting drenched when he had his accident, and seemed to be okay. The thought of an IV wasn't totally unexpected, considering the circumstances. But considering the alternative, he supposed he shouldn't mind so much that his body would have yet another hole poked in it.

Despite his blatant 'go away and leave me alone' sign, Janet seemed determined to ignore it. "Listen to me, sir. I know you're miserable. And it's not going to get any better. In fact, there's a very good chance that it will get worse before it does." Janet stood with arms crossed, then her face softened. "But believe me when I say this. It will get better. You will get better. We'll get you through this, but we have to work together on this. Which means you have to let us do our jobs, yours will be hard enough as it is. But let us help you through it."

Jack sighed and shook his head. "Just let me have my privacy, Doc. Is that too much to ask? The last thing I want or need is for Carter and Teal'c, or even Hammond hovering over me. I couldn't take that. And they don't need it. It's been too soon since they stood a deathwatch over Daniel. Don't make them do it all over again with me."

Janet looked skeptical. "All right, I'll talk to the general about it. You'll have your privacy, but I want your cooperation in this, sir. Have we got a deal?"

Jack nodded and then curled into the fetal position on the bed, his arms still wrapped around his abdomen as the cramps struck again and again. He bit his lip and moaned.

"Oh God."

**oXo**

"No way . . ."

"Major . . ."

Sam Carter's mouth snapped shut, but her expression shouted out her displeasure; she was pissed. General Hammond could see that he barely had enough influence to calm her down.

"Sir?"

Hammond nailed Carter, Teal'c, and Quinn with a withering glare before nodding to Doctor Fraiser to continue.

"This decision was Colonel O'Neill's, not mine. But I intend to see that his wishes are met. I promised him, sir."

Hammond slowly drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes seeking out those seated there. He didn't like the idea any better than the major. Teal'c looked . . . well who could tell? Jack could, he knew, but . . .

And Jonas? Well, didn't that beat all? That boy looked like he'd found a bright shiny new silver dollar. Come to think of it, though. That sunshiny smile undoubtedly hid the man's emotions just as effectively as did Teal'c's stoic expression.

He had an idea what lay behind Jack's demand that he have no visitors. His 2IC was proud, but he was certain that more than that lay behind the demand. Jack was methodical and this spoke to more than just saving his pride, this probably had everything to do with limiting the emotional damage if he didn't make it. But it was the colonel's decision, even if he, General George Hammond, was among those to be banned from the man's sick room.

"SG-1, the decision stands. If this is how Colonel O'Neill wants it, we as his friends and fellow officers, must honor his decision." He paused and looked at each member until he saw a nod of acceptance before he moved on to the next person at the table. "You're dismissed."

Major Carter sprang up, too much an officer to glare at him, but too much of a woman to not make a spectacular display of leaving. Hammond slowly rubbed a few fingers across his aching head.

"Doctor . . ." Hammond softly halted the female CMO, "Stay a moment, please."

Her head followed Teal'c's slow but graceful exit, Jonas had rushed after the major. Hammond had to wonder about the boy's survival instincts. If it were him, he'd keep half the base between him and Carter for as long as he could, and he knew he was fairly safe from her wrath.

Only when George ceased to hear the even, heavy tread of the Jaffa did he return his attention to Fraiser. Her head was down, watching her fingers attempt to strangle themselves. She wasn't happy with the decision either, that was all too clear.

Reaching out, Hammond covered the woman's restless fingers with his larger hand, bringing her eyes to his.

"He's protecting them, isn't he?" His sharp eyes saw the answer in hers and he patted her stilled hands. "No need to answer, I know Jack pretty well by now."

His hand abandoned hers as he reached up to massage his temples with both hands. Fraiser averted her eyes and found her fingers very interesting – again, it was her way of offering privacy. Something he knew she practiced with everyone. With her, he could be a little more human. He wondered if Jack found the same respite in her presence.

"So, no Major Carter, no Teal'c . . . and no me?"

"That is correct, sir. The colonel was very specific, he named each by name."

This is a good thing I gather; despite the pain it is causing his team?"

Fraiser nodded.

"I won't press you for the details of this very obvious O'Neill-type of deal for his cooperation," Hammond peered sharply at the beginnings of an outraged look that quickly wilted into a rather telling blush on his CMO's face.

"What worries me is that the man seems to be burning his bridges and that tells me, and no doubt tells you, that he has doubts about surviving this." Fraiser squirmed uncomfortably, confirming his words.

"Let me ask you something you can answer," now placing both hands firmly on the table. "Did he at any time use the words SG-1 or team when he requested no visitors?"

Fraiser looked at him uncertainly, he could tell she thought his question was nuts, but then being a little nuts helped to deal with the kind of convoluted tactical mind of his second.

"No . . ."

"So no general descriptive terms were used – only specific names?"

"Uh, that's correct, sir."

"And at no time did he mention denying Jonas Quinn from visiting him?"

Fraiser looked a bit stunned, but when the revelation came so did a smile that could launch a thousand ships.

"No, sir!"

"You do understand what I'm hinting at here, Doctor."

"Yes, sir. I believe I do."

"Then Major, I believe you should find Mr. Quinn and instruct him in your expectations. I distinctly recall Jack mentioning how irritating he found Jonas."

"Sir, with your permission," the doctor rose to her feet with an eager expression on her face.

"Granted," George smiled. He watched as she marched in the direction that Quinn had left in and he continued to thoughtfully gaze after her long after she had vanished from his sight.

Finally Hammond rose to return to his office, leaving his last words on the subject drifting across an empty room.

"If I can get you pissed off enough, Jack; you might just forget the stupid idea that you are mortal after all."

**oXo**

Jack felt miserable. What was worse, he was certain he had a chapped butt. And talk about sore: from his throat all the way down to the exit that felt chapped. His guts churned constantly, each expellation of foul smelling sewage-fodder was signaled by painful cramping that should have produced the birth of a full-term baby elephant. All Jack could do was hang on and endure.

Endure the pain and embarrassment. Actually, he'd gotten over the embarrassment; it took too much energy. He just flopped from side to side as requested as the routine of new sheets accelerated in pace. Quickened by the new part of his routine, that involved getting yet another bottomless cup of Naquadah Nectar. He really hated the stuff. He'd rather drink what went out in the sheets than that stuff, but then again on second thought – maybe not.

Again he kicked his legs free of the cloying warmth of the single sheet that covered him. His gown was hiked up so high he'd bet Carter Territory was getting a tan. But he didn't give a damn, he was hot, he hurt, and he wished he could get some sleep. Dozing would be almost as good, but he was too tired to try.

He giggled and attracted the gaze of one of the nurses. He couldn't remember her name, didn't want to remember her name. It was a her? Wasn't it?

'_Oh crap.'_

"Sir, let's prop you up a bit and drink some more of your medicine," the nameless nurse suggested brightly.

"Okay, you can drink it and I'll stay propped up and watch," Jack replied with a smirk. _'Not more of that Naquadah Nectar, almost anything but more of that crap; I'm sick to death of drinking that crap.'_ It had been bad enough that the stomach flu had negated any control he had of his bowels, but the Nectar was making it worse, an expression of his body's attempt to expel what it saw as poison.

"Please, sir?" The nurse smiled with encouragement and held the full glass to his lips. Jack tightened his lips and shook his head minutely. To move it anymore was to invite his brains to slosh around inside of his head – and that hurt. He already hurt all over; there was no way he was going to add to his misery.

"Just a little bit?" the nurse wheedled.

'_She hasn't gone away yet? I could've sworn she had.'_ "No," he muttered. "Don't wanna."

"I know you don't sir, but you need to."

"I said no," his voice rose an octave. _'Was she deaf? Why won't she just leave me alone? Can't she see I'm sick?' _

"Please?" She smiled again. He hated that smile – so full of sugar and life. "Just a little?"

"I said no!" His hand rose and clumsily connected with his target, the glass held by the nurse, and knocked it out of her hand where it clattered to the floor with a sodden splash. He was just mad enough to be able to ignore the molten fire the move had caused under the thick bandage of that shoulder, later he'd pay for it.

Jack turned his head away and refused to meet the nurse's eyes, eyes he knew would be filled with reproach for his childish behavior. He just didn't care anymore. Caring took too much energy, energy he didn't have – would never have again.

With his last dregs of strength, he heaved himself onto his side and faced the wall, ignoring the sound of footsteps leaving his room. Later became sooner, his shoulder throbbed and the other, being lonely, echoed it a half-beat behind. Searching for any distraction, his eyes followed the plastic tubing that led from his wrist up to a clear plastic bag hung on an IV pole next to his bed.

It wasn't long before he heard the familiar tappity-tap of Dr. Fraiser's pumps enter his room. Sure enough, the nurse had called in reinforcements. No surprise there. At least he'd have some other distraction from the building agony of his shoulder, as the IV hadn't held his attention for long. But that had been no great surprise either.

He kept his face turned to the wall, in the hope that this too would pass – that this particular nuisance would go away if he ignored it long enough – Fraiser and the pain. A forlorn hope, he knew, but it was all he had left.

"Colonel?" She sounded pissed.

"Go away," Jack warned his voice devoid of all emotion. That took too much energy, energy that he didn't have any more. His hand swiped away an unseen tear.

"Is that your medicine on the floor?"

Jack didn't bother answering._ 'Stupid question, she already knows the answer. Why's she bothering with a question she knows the answer to anyway?' _

He studied the wall in front of him, hoping against hope that she would give up and go away. He'd already managed to keep Teal'c and Carter from visiting him, although he had the sneaky feeling that Fraiser had told them to stay away because of the messy effects of the combination of the flu and the treatment for the radiation sickness had on him.

Jack was beginning to doubt the truth of his Doctor's assertion that he was getting better though. He certainly didn't feel better. If anything, he felt worse than he had before he started the treatment that was supposed to save his life. To keep him from dying like Daniel had.

If this was how his friend had felt, then he could totally understand why he'd wanted it to end. Why he'd grabbed at Oma's offer to help him ascend and why he'd halted Jacob's attempt to heal him.

Not that Oma, Daniel, or the Tok'ra had shown up with the same offer. He didn't expect them to. He wouldn't accept their kind of help if they'd offered it. Too many strings attached.

No, he knew that he was dying, despite everything that Janet, Carter, and Hammond had told him. He could feel it. And no amount of drinking down that crappy glop would change that.

When it came down to it, though, he was tired of fighting to live, tired of carrying the world on his shoulders. And tired of the pain. It was time for him to step aside and let someone else do it for a while. Like for forever. Another tear was absently smeared across his cheek. The pain in his shoulders faded against the bone-deep fatigue that now enveloped him; even his knee was a dim flicker in that fog of weariness.

Janet's shoes tapped around the foot of his bed and her concerned face came into view, despite his resolute stare at the wall in front of him. He bit back a giggle at the thought of the Doc tap-dancing around his bed, just like she was dodging the truth of his illness.

His eyes flicked over her and then moved back to stare straight ahead.

"Colonel? What's going on?"

He briefly considered not answering, but knew she would keep nagging at him if he didn't. "Go away," He whispered; the temptation to just give in to it all was overwhelming.

"No, sir. Not until you tell me what's going on," she knelt down at his bedside; her face took the place of the soothing nothingness of the wall.

Jack sighed and closed his eyes, that very act of self-defense made them sting with fatigue. The pain was never-ending – physical and emotional.

"Tell me, sir. Tell me what's going on." Her voice was soft but held a note of a plea in its tone.

"You lied," Jack turned on his back and his arm flopped over his eyes and wondered why the tears had dried up. Now he really felt like crying. "You all lied."

"We lied?" Her voice was full of disbelief. "About what, sir?"

"About me, about this." His arm came down and his dark eyes bored into hers. She held his stare and didn't flinch. He looked away instead. What did it matter?

"I don't understand what you mean, sir." She touched his arm and he jerked it away. "Please make me understand."

"I'm dying, admit it," his voice was low and monotonous, already devoid of life.

"Not if I can help it, sir." She sounded so sure of herself.

"This cure of yours, it's a phony, isn't it? Go ahead and admit it. It's okay, I don't care anyway," he snarled, beginning to feel angry that she would continue the lie.

"No, sir. It is not a phony cure. It's all you've got, and by god, you should be thankful for it."

He nailed her with a glare that dared her to contradict his conclusion – to compound the lie with another.

"As God is my witness, sir. It's real, and it will cure you."

His expression didn't dampen a bit as he shook his head and then winced when the pain in his head and shoulders protested the undue movement.

"What? You think that we're just experimenting on you? That this is all some sick joke?"

"You said it, I didn't," Jack replied.

"I would never do a thing like that, sir. Not now, not ever." She stood and threw her head back, angry now. "I thought you knew me better than that."

Jack shrugged and said nothing.

"Whether you believe it or not, sir. This medicine will cure you, but it won't be pleasant. It will make you sicker than you already are. It can't cure you if you don't take it, and since my nurses can't seem to get the job done, I'm sending in someone else who has assured me that he will."

"Who?" Despite himself, Jack felt intrigued. "Are you gonna sic Hammond on me? Make him order me to take it?"

"No, I could. But, I'm not. Someone else will be here with you, night and day, until you're on your feet again, though."

"Who?"

Janet gestured toward the open door. "Jonas, you can come in now."

"You're kidding." Jack's mouth gaped open. _'She's got to be kidding, right?'_

"No, I'm not. He's a member of your team, isn't he? Think of it as an exercise in team bonding, sir."

She really sounded mad now, and looked it too. Her heels dug into the tile floor as she rounded the bed, on her way out of the room.

She addressed her next words to the man with the huge shit-eating grin on his face. "I'll have his next dose sent in. Make sure he drinks it this time. This medicine is hard to come by and shouldn't be wasted. And good luck, Jonas, maybe he'll listen to you. "

"Jack?" The man's smile was blinding and Jack had to squint against the glare of the light reflecting off his pearly whites.

"Get out," Jack ground out between clenched teeth.

"No," Jonas answered softly, but still sounded pretty determined. Well, he could fix that; He'd managed to get rid of Carter and Teal'c. Jonas would be a piece of cake.

His stomach gurgled a warning at that thought and he grimaced. _'Okay, okay, that was a bad example. Easy;'_ he amended hastily. _'Getting rid of Jonas would be easy.'_

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Earlier at the SGC, other problems brewed:_

" . . .it's not like he's good breeding material," smirked Rodney McKay.

Rodney's eyes becoming saucer-sized was all that stopped her hand halfway to his face. Sam stopped it there, though it trembled with indecision. She so wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, the one now replaced with impossibly wide eyes and the sudden sweat of fear, his mouth slack with shock.

'_Yes, you sanctimonious prig. You'd better fear me,_' Sam thought, her face hard at the callousness of this . . . this . . . SCIENTIST.

Tightly closing her right hand, still hanging indecisively between them, she fisted it tight before letting it drop to her side. With an inarticulate sound she turned her back to the clueless genius and stalked out of the room.

'_Holy Hannah!'_ She just could not believe it had never occurred to her. '_It should have!_' Sam berated herself. After all, this would eventually, and very directly affect her. Someday . . . she hoped. Then she swallowed and forced her mind away from that and back to the present and the issue that McKay had brought up.

Furiously she turned the problem over in her mind. How could she disprove McKay's assumption? How?

Mentally, she reviewed the configuration of the Stargate as it had been mounted on the bottom of the X-302. The command module should have been sheltered from any direct shower of particles, protected by the bulk of the craft, and any of the tritium shed from the iris on the Stargate. Only material skimming closely around the hull would have broken free of the energetic plasma that must have existed, no matter how thin. This fact was in McKay's favor.

But the position of the gate 'directly' under the ship would have an additional advantage. The Stargate itself would have been on the outer edge, beyond the iris and out of direct alignment with the command module. It would create a 'shadow' in the wave of particles ejected: one, because there was no naquadah behind it, and two, because the eruption of particles would only come from the ring that was the 'gate.

Carter's boots rang along the corridor, her mind on the problem; on autopilot, her body was an expert at dodging the moving obstacles along her path after many years of practice.

The shadow of the iris would be negated by the expansion of particles ejected from the naquadah of the 'gate itself. What would be the rate of closure? And what would be the percentage of non-straight-line ejection of particles? If one assumed that the particles were ejected perpendicular to the surface it emerged from – a safe bet – one could also use a constant for scatter. And in such a system scatter would be proportional to surfaces on the 'gate that were not parallel to the majority of its surface.

Sam's face softened at the thought trying to explain that to the colonel. By now he would've had a pained expression on his face, and might even have stuck his fingers in his ears and sing-songed "la, la, la." That was his signal that her techno-babble was not getting the problem solved.

And he'd come back with something inane about fancy doo-dads on the 'gate. Because the doo-dads would be the surfaces that would create the scattered particles that would negate the protection of the iris. She shook her head, turning her thoughts back to the problem. She needed to solve this for the colonel – for them.

Doo-dads. . . Something bothered her about them.

Sam stopped dead in the corridor, totally oblivious to the detachment of SFs that split and flowed around her.

The 'gate had faced down. It had been more because of the central raised leaves of the iris, but it would also have afforded protection if the iris had been compromised as the active wormhole faced away from the X-302. In addition, it would have also helped push particles in that direction – away. Just a matter or pressure exerted by energized particles; like water flowing in one direction in a garden hose.

And better yet there were less doo-dads on the back of the 'gate, so there would be less scatter, less lethal particles to invade the cone of protection that by chance alone would extend upwards to enclose most of the command module protecting the pilot – Jack.

Sam's feet had long ago ordered her body back into motion and along a path it knew to follow. They stopped beside the open door; her body breathing hard after clomping up the metal stairs.

Mind and body reintegrated once again, Carter's hand rapped sharply at the doorjamb.

"General?"

"Major? What can I do for you?"

"I need to find the colonel's flight suit, sir," Sam stated without preamble.

Hammond looked a little puzzled.

"Why?"

"It occurred to me that the suit was the one thing that hasn't been tested for radiation levels. And it is the one thing that would show exactly just how much radiation the colonel's body was exposed to," the words came out in a rush. "All of his body, sir."

The general slowly nodded his head in understanding. Even though she didn't mention just what parts she was concerned most about, the general was no dummy and had probably picked up on her unspoken words. What she hoped to prove with the aid of his pressure suit was that a certain very private part of Jack O'Neill might have been spared from total destruction by its very location relative to the iris.

"Major, you have my authority to contact the captain of the Enterprise, or anyone else you need to recover that suit. Keep me appraised. And if you have any problems, don't hesitate to come to me. If you can't get someone moving, I can."

"Yes, sir. I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, sir," her smile of relief was immediate and genuine. Now that she had Hammond's support, she would move heaven and earth to locate that suit.

"No, thank you. Thank you for thinking of something that can help the colonel." His voice softened – a match to the expression on his face. "I know it's been hard not being able to visit him while he's ill. I find it damned frustrating to not be able to just reassure myself by just seeing him. It's got to be far worse on you and Teal'c."

Sam's detachment nearly crumbled under those words. She had to keep herself from thinking about just why she was taking this path of investigation. Proving McKay wrong was the least of reasons she had. Although she had to admit that proving him wrong had benefits that would certainly make her day . . . no make that her week.

She ducked her head and nibbled her lower lip, seeking the level of self-control she needed in order to do her job – what needed to be done. "Yes, sir. It is difficult. I keep reminding myself how I feel when I'm sick."

He nodded his agreement and smiled. "True, none of us seem able to handle visitors well while ill. Good luck, Major."

"Thank you, sir," Sam's words were the only reminder of her presence as she had already cleared the doorway to get the job done. She swiftly moved away from the hustle and bustle of the SGC's Command Center, finally reaching the quite sanctuary of a stairwell.

Her original intent was to jog up to her lab and start making the necessary calls. Instead she slumped down onto the stairs, leaning against the wall as her emotions eroded her carefully erected barriers. The one's she'd built as protection against irrational feelings that only distracted her from what was important – her work. But lately, those same barriers were not holding very well. Not since she'd discovered that her feelings for her CO were reciprocated – and they had agreed to leave them in the room where they'd finally admitted to them.

Like a tongue probing the cavity in a tooth, her restless mind worried at the colonel's welfare. Only one thing mattered to her in her search for the flight suit. That Jack remain healthy and whole for their future together. That thought added another fissure in the barrier she'd erected.

'_No'_, she vowed silently. She had to keep busy, busy enough to keep these dangerous and highly unprofessional feelings of hers under control.

If she were completely honest with herself, she'd be forced to admit that she'd welcomed the challenge of discovering the whereabouts of the wayward flight suit in much the same way as a drowning man viewed a life preserver.

At last her mind had found a distraction worthy of her intellect – something to keep her from dwelling on the welfare of the man laying in the Infirmary, the same man she'd been forbidden to see – prevented by words out of his own mouth. It felt almost like a betrayal – of what they felt toward each other – what they'd agreed to keep in that room.

It wasn't that she didn't trust the care that he was receiving there – far from it. If he had to be there, at least he was being treated by a friend, Janet, one of the best doctors; a doctor who had treated the colonel before, and had nursed him back to health.

She briefly laid her head against her drawn-up knees and blotted the traitorous tears on the cloth of her pants. _'I won't cry. I swore I wouldn't cry. Crying is for babies . . . and certainly won't do the colonel . . .Jack . . . any good. He needs me to stay focused. He needs me . . . doesn't he?'_

Ruthlessly she forced her mind away from that emotional quicksand that could so easily trap and engulf her if she were not careful. Back to the problem that needed a solution – a solution that she could provide if she only thought about it long enough. She took a deep cleansing breath and smiled. She'd get through this, just like always. She just had to find the answer – and the flight suit. She had to trust that the colonel knew what he was doing. After all, he must have had his reasons, right? He wouldn't intentionally hurt her . . .would he?

And just why was she doubting him? Vague feelings of previous disastrous relationships – of Jonah – tried to surface and Sam stuffed them down. That was then, it was done. This was Jack, she knew him, what he'd done wasn't about control or rejection, but was more about protection. He'd die alone if he thought it would be easier on someone – on her. Damn him, it just made her love him the more.

'_No, Sam. Get your mind back to the problem,' _she remonstrated with herself. '_Back where it can do the most good – back in safer territory.'_

Another cleansing breath and she felt relatively calm as she got to her feet and started back toward her lab. She needed to prove that the dose of radiation was lower than what Rodney McKay insisted on, and lower than what she had insisted upon. Sam was certain that the colonel would survive even Rodney's inflated number of particles. Yet her much lower estimate would be enough to sterilize anyone. Jack would never be able to have children if that suit didn't provide proof of her newest theory.

Without that proof her possible future with Jack O'Neill was in serious jeopardy, because in that future reality she intended to have his children. Dammit.

**oXo**

"Sam?" Janet Fraiser looked up from her warm wheat toast and coffee. Her friend looked terrible. "Have you been up all night?"

"Yes. I guess I have," Sam Carter tiredly huffed out as she dropped into the chair opposite her friend. Her own coffee was clenched tightly in her hands.

To Janet's practiced eyes, Sam looked a little glassy-eyed and haggard. She pushed the plate of toast toward her.

"Have some."

"Not hungry." Sam didn't even look at the plate. Now Janet was worried. What was going on here? And how did it affect her most seriously ill patient? Because she knew it did, as sure as God made little green apples.

"Eat, or else," she grinned wickedly, "And explain why the all-nighter."

Janet just grinned at the laser beam glare her friend offered before breaking down and snapping a bite off of one crisp half-slice, unbuttered, of course. '_We girls have to watch our figures.'_

With the toast obviously swallowed and the glassy-look returned, Janet prompted.

"Sam, what's so urgent?"

"It's about Jack, ah. . . the colonel. About . . . about his ability to. . . to. . ."

Bingo, she'd hit it right on the nose. Did she know Sam or did she know Sam? Janet leaned toward her friend with encouragement to confide in her. "Come on, Sam. This is you and me. What about the colonel?"

"He may have been sterilized," Sam's face was bleak.

Janet turned the words over in her mind, totally confused for a moment.

"Radiation. Damn, why didn't I think of that?" Oh God! Why hadn't she considered that? After all, she was the medical person, it was her job to consider all angles. And she'd totally spaced out that very significant matter.

"I didn't either."

"Well, Sam. Why would you? Now I. . . but, if you didn't. Who did?"

Sam rolled her eyes and spat out the man's name like it left a bad taste in her mouth. "McKay."

"McKay! Somehow that really doesn't sound all that strange. Strange men do strange things."

"Janet," Sam grabbed and held onto her hand capturing all of her attention, "You need to check him."

Her friend looked hopefully at her and she hated that she would have to dash that blooming hope.

"I can't," Janet replied more flatly than she intended, she held up a finger to stop the words she could see coming up Sam's throat. "He's too sick right now; any sperm samples would be of poor quality or simply non-existent, even if I could come up with an explanation for the sample." Janet grinned impishly. "After all, I do need his cooperation for something like that."

"But. . ."

"I'm sorry, Sam. It's just the way biology works. Right now his body is battling for its life, procreation is on hold until the war is won or lost."

Sam's eyes were studying the half-full plate of cold toast thoughtfully, her teeth tugged at her lower lip. Janet waited, and as expected her eyes finally rose and in them was that determination she so admired in her friend.

"Then I guess it's up to me to figure it out. There is a chance that I can, just a chance."

"That's all he'll need. Jack O'Neill leads a charmed life. With him there's always a chance and he always finds it. Or in this case you will find it. I'm sure of it," Janet encouraged. Her words weren't just empty platitudes she was spouting either. She believed them, to the depth of her being. Sam would find an answer. She always had before. And she would again.

And knowing her friend as she did, Sam was probably finding a way to bury herself in her work. Janet knew that the fact that she had been barred from visiting Jack in the Infirmary had been a heavy blow to her, and she would've been desperately searching for something to keep her mind occupied.

Sam smiled faintly, nodded her head in agreement and fingered a slice of toast. Without prompting she began to eat the toast. Janet smiled.

"You'll tell him? About the . . ." Sam pointed down below the table, and reddened.

"No. Not now, he has enough to worry about. When I know for sure, then I'll tell him," she replied. Besides, if she waited until after Sam checked it out, chances were good that she'd have an answer for the inevitable questions Jack would throw at her.

Her friend nodded, unable to respond, too busy fueling that wonderful brain of hers. Janet became thoughtful and then added:

"Sam, I wouldn't be too surprised if the notion hadn't already occurred to him."

The major nodded and swallowed.

"Very little gets by him, despite what he says," Sam too, looked preoccupied for a moment, and then continued. "I wish that this time this one does get by him."

Janet patted her hand, pushed the toast closer and nodded in agreement.

"The ironic thing is that I would've already had the answer in my hands if I could just find the flight suit."

"His flight suit?" Janet prompted. She had the feeling that this was what had kept her friend up all night, and kept her mind occupied. If it was, it was great therapy for her.

Sam nodded, "The one he was wearing when he was exposed. But apparently he left it onboard the Enterprise when he changed into something dry. And now no one seems to know where it is."

"I take it that you tried contacting the Enterprise?"

"Yes, I did. But that didn't work. They claim it's been sent on to us, but I have my doubts."

"Did you tell them why you needed it?"

"Yes and no. I told them it might be radioactive, but they didn't seem to believe me." Sam snorted, "They seemed to have the idea that I was wasting their valuable time."

"Come on, Sam. I know you. You've hit a dead-end. What do you plan to do about it?"

Sam paused a moment and then smiled. "Call in the big guns. General Hammond had said earlier that he would be more than glad to help if I ran into any trouble finding it."

**oXo**

"Captain Christian?" George gave a thumbs up to Major Carter who would land on her butt if she weren't careful, so precariously was she perched on her chair. "You took care of one of my men the other day . . ."

"Oh, you mean Colonel O'Neill?" The Skipper of the Enterprise sounded guarded, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, along with a couple of tons of first class manure. George could understand his sentiments as it wasn't every day that he had a Major General from the Air Force calling him on the phone either.

"Yes, that's the one," George agreed.

"Yes, I remember him; he gave my people a hard time. He seems to be a bit of a handful, if you ask me."

"Yes, you might say he's a handful. But he is a good man to have by your side when the shit hits the fan. But that's not why I called. Seems he left his flight suit on your boat when he left."

"His flight suit?" The skipper sounded doubtful.

"Yes, when he changed out of his wet duds, he left it there and our lab boys are itching to get their hands on it because of residue it might have picked up from the aircraft he was flying."

"What do you mean by residue? Would it be dangerous to my crew?"

"Dangerous?" His eyes threw Carter the question and she fielded it with a shake of her head. "No, we don't think so . . . but they can't be sure until they run some tests on it."

"Oh, well that puts a whole different slant on it. I'll have my XO hunt it down for you, but I can't guarantee that we'll find it. It's very likely that it got tossed out . . . just like the poop suit we loaned to your man no doubt was."

Hammond s voice rose a couple of decibels. "I see. Well, since you put it that way, here's the straight poop, I've got a man down in my Infirmary who's pretty sick and we need that flight suit in order to determine if he's gonna make it or not."

"He's that sick?" For the first time in their conversation, George felt he had the man's attention and his conclusion was confirmed by Christian's next words. "So it's a matter of life or death for your man?"

"A matter of life or death?" He nodded. "Yes, you might put it that way."

Major Carter's face wilted at his words but then with a visible effort she pulled herself together. Within seconds any signs of distress were erased from her face as if they'd never happened.

"Good, I figured you'd see it that way. And thanks for taking such good care of my man the other day. It does my heart good when I see all of us working together so well."

"I'll make finding it a priority; you'll be seeing it soon. Nothing stays unfound on my ship. Give my best to your man," the captain of the Enterprise ended his transmission on the ship-to-shore call.

Hammond took his time as he replaced the receiver back on the phone, the better to gather his thoughts. It was as he'd thought. The Skipper had labeled the return of O'Neill's flight suit as being a low priority, but once he realized the why behind their request, would tear his tub apart to locate it.

And in return, he would make it a priority of his own to ensure that the Navy's flight suit they'd loaned to O'Neill – or barring that a new replacement – would be returned to them.

"Sir?" Hammond had been wrong, it was possible for the major's butt to get closer to the edge of the chair without falling off it completely – as she was demonstrating.

"They're making it a priority and will send it to us ASAP."

Carter's beaming smile was part of George's reward, but only part. The real reward would only be seen when Jack was up and about once again, and doing his best to drive him to an early grave with his maverick ways. For that would mean that his second was truly recovered and feeling his oats.

"Thank you, sir!" She sprang from her chair and for a split second he wondered if she were going to throw her arms around him from across the desk. It was a forceful reminder that he was the major's godfather and brought back memories of the sunny but brilliant child she had been before she'd lost her mother in the tragic accident.

"I'm glad to help, Major. Now about that Navy flight suit that Jack was given. See that it's given to my aide so we can ship it back to Captain Christian."

"I know exactly where it is, sir. And I'll get right on it."

Her smile lit up his office and reminded him of her mother, a good friend's wife who had died too soon. For it was at times like this that Samantha resembled her mother the most.

"I figured you would. It's been cleared, hasn't it?"

Yes, sir, it has. No residual radiation was found on it, which confirmed my theory that the initial burst of . . ."

George held up his hands, "Whoa there, Major. I'll take your word for it."

Samantha blushed and ducked her head. "Yes, sir."

"You're dismissed." He paused as she was turning to go, "Keep me posted."

She pivoted and grinned. "Always, sir." Yep, there was no doubt that she was the spitting image of her mother. And knowing her mother as he had, she'd be proud of her.

**oXo**

_Back in the present, Jack was still having a hard time:_

He'd so hoped that Jonas wouldn't return. One look at that irritating expanse of white teeth in that perpetual sunny grin was enough to make him toss his cookies – well, at least worse then he'd been doing.

Jonas had excused himself as soon as Jack had presented his back and curled up. Misery loves company, but he was determined that his misery wasn't having a party – not with this joker on the guest list.

Familiar jaunty boot-steps sounded across the room and Jack curled in tighter, his only defense against the world at the moment. Behind the boots were the lighter, sharper steps of one of the nurses. He could tell which one. The her; definitely a her, either that or the guy had a 'really' good razor.

So much for Jonas just leaving, he'd only been gone a couple of minutes. Damn.

Back to Plan B. Passive resistance. It worked for Gandhi. Why not him? Like what were they gonna do? Visions of a naso. . . naso. . . Crap! That nose-tube thingy screamed across his thoughts and he wondered why Fraiser hadn't considered that? He so hated that tube stuck up his nose and down into his stomach. Maybe the Naquadah Nectar was too caustic for the tube? Sure felt caustic. Not be mention that the taste reminded him of goat dung – never mind how he knew what that tasted like. Ewww.

Those memories reawakened his gag reflex and he swallowed the bile that threatened to erupt from his mouth anew. One hand covering his mouth, he listened to the pair of unwelcome visitors to his room.

Jonas and the 'she' nurse chatted brightly. Gag. The only weird thing was the sound of liquid being poured. Jack opened an eye at sounds near where the Nectar had landed. And there was the nurse cleaning it up, the cup in her hand. So what was with the pouring? That cup was the only one in the room. And he'd distinctly heard the sound of one being set down on his table.

Curiosity got the better of him; Jack craned his head around to scope out the table. In the center of it sat the covered travel mug that Jonas was never without.

"Colonel, I took the liberty of getting you another cup. One that won't spill, even if 'accidentally' dropped," Jonas smiled happily – like a kid given an all-day pass to Disney World.

Jack allowed himself to flop over onto his back, dumbfounded at what could be considered a veiled allusion to what had happened to the previous cup. He glared at Jonas who just smiled more broadly. He wouldn't have thought that were possible, but the ass-kissing alien had just proven him wrong. Oy!

"I've just read all the surviving literature from Ancient Greece. Did you know that I have an eidetic memory? I'd love to recite some of it to you. Would you prefer English or the original Greek?" That irritatingly bright smile was turned up another notch as he babbled along. At the rate Jonas was using it on him; he'd have a sunburn in no time flat.

Jack groaned, flung his arm over his eyes and wondered how the hell he was gonna survive this.

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"And wait till you hear this . . . I think that it's the most interesting part," Jonas paused with one finger upraised before he continued. "μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος οὐλομένην, ἣ μυρί' Ἀχαιοῖς ἄλγε' ἔθηκε, πολλὰς ' φθίμους ψυχὰς Ἄϊδι προί̈αψεν ἡρώων, αὐτοὺς δὲ ἑλώρια τεῦχε κύνεσσιν οἰωνοῖσί τε πᾶσι, Διὸς δ' ἐτελείετο βουλή..."

'_Crap.'_ Jack scrubbed his face with both hands and then clapped them over his ears in frustration.

'_Homer in English is bad enough, but in Greek it bores twice as long. The only Homer I care about is Simpson. And this ain't that. Not by a long shot.' _

"Enough! For crying out loud, what do you want from me?" Jack spat out, his patience, thin at the best of times, was like tissue paper now and easily rent. Jonas' reciting of Homer's Iliad in the original was more torture then any man could endure. '_No wonder those Greeks were so tough,'_ Jack thought. _'They had to be to sit through that crap voluntarily.'_

And thanks to that damned download, Jack understood 'way' too much of the damned stuff even in Greek. Like anyone else he liked a good adventure, but there was such a thing as too much elaboration and the ancient Greek's were masters of that, and even worse was all that kowtowing to their crowd of gods. Especially now that he knew that crop of gods were nothing more than snakes in people clothing.

Jonas smiled that smile that turned his stomach and pushed the travel mug full of Naquadah Nectar forward. Jack couldn't stop his reflexive flinch.

It was pretty damned clear what price he'd have to pay. He was actually starting to feel a bit better; the nurses hadn't been in to view his crappy ass for almost two hours. Course he'd not spewed anything for just as long either, so no crappy ass to view. Though right now he'd not complain about having a little Vaseline jelly applied, that had long since rubbed off onto his gown and the sheets, his cheeks were feeling painful once more.

Amazing when one could find creature comfort in what was essentially an extremely humiliating procedure.

"And if I do?" Jack forced out from between clenched teeth, really not into giving in, especially not to Jonas.

"No more Greek" Jonas smirked.

If Jack hadn't felt so awful, he would've taken great pleasure in wiping that smirk off Quinn's face, as if was, he only grimaced and pulled the mug toward him. He hefted it in his hand and winced when he heard its contents slosh inside the cup. "All of it?"

"All of it," Jonas confirmed and turned up his thousand kilowatt smile a notch.

"All of it, he says," Jack muttered before he took a cautious sip. He swallowed it and his stomach roiled in complaint. "Okay, but will you be ready to catch?"

"Catch?" Jonas looked a little less confident.

"Um hm," Jack smiled and took another swallow with predictable results as his stomach gurgled its protest. If he had to puke . . . and other things, at least he could put it to good use. Oh yes, Jonas was going to pay. Too bad he wasn't in the position to enjoy it more.

His long fingers curled around the cup as he gazed off into the distance, lost in thought.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Jonas was doing him a favor by blabbing on ad nauseam in Greek about some long-dead hero who didn't know any other way than to kowtow to a god who could've cared less whether he lived or died. It did provide him with something else to occupy his mind – other than his own rather considerable health problems. And once he'd accepted that, maybe – just maybe – Fraiser really did have a cure here; he still had a problem, a more permanent problem, and one without a cure. This possibility was yet another reason to keep his team, especially Carter, from seeing him.

He wiggled uncomfortably as his chapped butt-cheeks rasped against the sheets. He'd been exposed to radiation, and considering that he'd been practically sitting on top of the source, that meant that certain parts of his anatomy – parts that were near and dear to his heart for obvious reasons – parts that defined who and what he was – might have been adversely affected . . . severely affected. As in roasted – like chestnuts over hot coals.

It was no great secret that exposure to radiation made a man sterile, that particular scenario had been done to death in sci-fi thrillers in the 50's and 60's. But when it might have happened to you . . . well that was a whole other kettle of fish – the kind that had three eyes.

At first, he'd managed to keep that particular worry safely tucked away in the nether regions of his brain, the same place he stored all other things that bothered him. Usually, because he couldn't – or wouldn't – do anything about them, those nameless worries and memories just stayed there, tucked away and didn't bother him unless he – or circumstances beyond his control – let them out. Circumstances like now, he admitted sourly to himself.

But when he'd awakened for several days in a row and noticed a distinct lack  
of activity in 'Carter Territory,' so to speak . . . well that particular worry had busted out of the box he'd locked it into and had been making a downright nuisance of itself ever since.

Before Doc had found a cure for him, he'd not worried about it overly much because, if he were dead, the state of his manhood was a moot point. And then when he'd started the treatments, he'd been too miserable to care whether all his other parts were in working order.

Terminal diarrhea and constant puking up everything but your toenails will do that to a person. But now that things had slowed down a bit in that department, at least for the time being, he had time and cause for that particular worry to resurface. And it did with a vengeance.

As much as he loved and respected Samantha Carter, the last thing he wanted was to saddle her with a husband who was less than half a man. And if he couldn't perform in the love department – and give her lots of babies . . . Well let's just say that she deserved to have a man who could give her all that and more. So it was just as well that she not be allowed to see him. After all, it was for her own good.

"Colonel?"

The voice of Jonas seemed to come from out of nowhere and Jack jerked in response. As a result, the cup flew out of his fingers, spun to the edge of his table, and then teetered for an instant on the edge.

"Crap!"

Jack's jaw dropped as he watched the cup seem to hover in mid-air, and then, as if in slow motion, it toppled toward the floor.

Jonas lunged for the falling cup but was too late. It hit the floor and then bounced. When it hit the tiles again, its momentum rolled it into the corner.

Jonas glared daggers at Jack who peeked over the edge of his bed, a look of utter surprise on his face. "It was an accident, I swear." Jack waved his arms and tried his best to look innocent, mainly because he was . . . this time.

Jonas shrugged and smiled as he picked himself up off the floor and retrieved the cup. "Lucky for you it didn't spill." His smile grew wider as he placed the cup on the table in front of Jack. "And you're past due for your next dose."

Jack's stomach gurgled loudly as he winced and picked up the cup. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

**oXo**

"Major Carter?"

Sam's head popped up from her scrutiny of the circuits laid out on her work surface, McKay stood in the doorway. Not quite in and not quite out, he flinched at the glare she threw him.

Sam didn't moderate her expression, but it was more severe than her thoughts, mainly because Rodney was visibly gathering his courage. No sound emerged from his working lips, one hand fluttered to the right, like a distraction and his eyes fixed on the left-hand wall.

"Well, I . . . I . . . guess I deserve that. Ah, I . . . I . . . " he closed the distance between them, in short little jerks forward, as if he were being reeled in by a rope, reluctantly, but he was 'very' careful to keep the worktable between her and he.

By this time Sam was rather enjoying his discomfit, in her opinion he had it coming. How dare he think so little of Jack O'Neill, he hardly knew him. He had excellent genes. She just bet Rodney's weren't as good; he probably had something essential missing that Jack had in spades. She smirked at the thought.

Rodney took the smirk as an invitation.

"I assume I said or did something that offended you. Just my quirky sense of humor. Sorry," McKay beamed as if the smirk had been his absolution still totally clueless about the dangerous ground he trod. It seemed as if he believed that if someone actually spoke to him after one of his 'little' offenses, all was forgiven. Yeah right.

"I didn't know you had a sense of humor," Sam replied tonelessly, wondering just how thick his social rhinoceros hide was.

"I do," the superior genius retorted, that self-satisfied little half-grin, half-smile firmly in place. The one Sam would love to push half of a freshly cut lemon into to see just how it affected him.

"In your opinion," she was finding it difficult not to burst out laughing; the man was glutton for punishment – either that or totally oblivious to what she actually thought of him.

Rodney looked both shocked and offended, and then smiled. Sam knew he thought she was joking and struggled to keep her professional persona firmly in place on her face. He really didn't have a sense of humor. Too bad he didn't realize it.

"I've brought you a peace offering. Just a little something that I whipped up – a spur of the moment thing."

It was amazing just how fast that arrogance of his reasserted itself. He held out a small box to Sam. He waited half a beat too long before it dawned on him she wasn't going to hold out her hand for it. He made a show of placing it within her reach while keeping as much distance as he could – the worktable still firmly bolted to the floor between them.

Sam was determined to make him squirm, so she just stared at him.

"You going to open it?" Rodney inquired after an embarrassing long period of non-reaction from Sam. He'd spent it looking at her . . . but only flitting over her face . . . his eyes kept dropping to her breasts and stopping there – fascinated; like a hormone-driven teen. He reddened when she pointedly picked up a folder and held it to her chest.

Sam shook her head and enjoyed his confusion.

"Ah . . . let me explain," Rodney stammered, looking like a puppy eager to please, somehow hoping no one would notice the stinking pile he knew was a mistake. He reached over and snatched the box back to his side of the table, opened it and removed what looked like a caplet-type pill or pellet. He placed it exactly between them, close to his edge of the table. He rattled the box; it was full of the little white pellets.

"These are radiation sensors," he explained with an ingratiating smirk, "It occurred to me that we have no way to measure the reduction of particle decay in Colonel O'Neill." Rodney picked up another pellet from the box and pantomimed his next words, "He just swallows a couple of these every few hours. They travel though his digestive system, they will turn color according to how much short-ray radiation they encounter. I've even calibrated a color system that will tell us fairly accurately his current level of internal radioactivity."

"You really want to make it up to me?" Sam frowned, deliberately coating her words heavily with doubt.

"Ah, yes," McKay looked disappointed, but also hopeful.

"If you really want to do that – make it up to me that is – there is a way."

Rodney smiled broadly, confident, happy. Once again master of all he surveyed. He nodded emphatically yes.

"Then see Doctor Fraiser and implement their use."

"That's all? I do that and we're square?"

"Yes."

McKay lit with joy as he snatched up the box and literally skipped from the room.

'_Holy Hannah'_, Sam thought with chagrin. _'Just how do I get out of this one?'_

On one hand, the ethical virtuous part of her felt rather bad about taking advantage of him like that. She had a pretty good idea that Rodney hadn't really thought through the whole process his pellet would go through. That what went in – would have to come out. She felt certain that he hadn't thought through the 'out' part . . . and what that would entail.

The other part of her, the female genius who'd had to put up with his social blunders and faux pas remembered how he'd managed to get on her last good nerve – how he'd stared at her chest just a second ago. Not to mention his remark about the colonel's genetic potential.

That part of her urged her to forget feeling sorry for the buffoon and that if he had to shift through some shit to find his pellets; well he had it coming to him; especially since she was pretty certain that Dr. Fraiser would delegate that particular duty to the creator of the pellets.

Sam snorted as she remembered what he'd said . . . and what she'd thought he'd said that day in the Infirmary – penis instead of pianist. That day seemed to have happened to so long ago and to someone else. That had been before the colonel – Jack – had gotten so sick.

Yes, getting even with Rodney McKay was just too easy. And she had to admit to feeling a guilty pleasure about it. And she had the feeling that the colonel would be proud of her.

Sam's exultant smile lit up her face and eyes in a way that had been absent. Her day was just getting better and better.

**oXo**

Janet smiled grimly as she tiptoed from her listening post outside Colonel O'Neill's private room. With Jonas handling her most seriously ill patient – at least for now, she had some free time on her hands. Time she could spend in putting her feet up and maybe catching up on the mail that currently resided in her overflowing in-box.

She'd barely had time to eat or sleep lately, but she happened to know that one particular letter on her desk came from her colleague in Area 51. Due to the colonel's serious medical problems, she hadn't had the chance to open it – that is until now.

Once out of earshot of the colonel's room, her heels tapped out a staccato beat on the tiled floors as she headed for her office at a fast trot. There was no telling how long it would take for the colonel to start having problems again, even with Jonas' best efforts, and she couldn't wait to see what was in the letter.

Once in her office, she closed the door, her signal to the staff that they'd better have a pretty damned good reason to disturb her. Her staff had been well trained; they would give her the privacy she needed.

Various other reports and forms were piled on top of the letter and she brushed them aside with barely concealed impatience. She hadn't been this excited about opening anything since she'd gotten her first Mother's Day present from Cassie.

She hooked a chair with one foot and pulled it toward her as she sat the letter on the desk in front of her. _'Hmm._ _I wonder what it's about?'_ she wondered as she slid her finger under the flap.

"Dammit" she cursed to herself when her finger was promptly sliced by the sharp edge of the paper. She stuck the stinging digit inside her mouth for a moment as the other hand opened the middle drawer. "There it is," she muttered as she spotted the letter opener.

She slid the opener under the edge of the flap and sliced along the upper edge of the letter. Then she tipped the letter up and a piece of paper slid onto her desk blotter. Janet picked it up and was just beginning to read it.

"Doctor Fraiser?" Rodney McKay stood in her open doorway. She'd been so engrossed in the letter that she hadn't heard her door open. _'You must be more tired than you thought, Janet. Something like that doesn't usually get by you.'_

Irritation at the interruption made her words brusque and to the point, "Don't you ever knock?"

Rodney stood in the doorway, stunned. "Oh . . . ah . . . did I interrupt you?"

"The door was closed for a reason." Janet nailed him with a glare that had sent nurses scurrying for cover and cowed Air Force officers.

"Oh, it was?" He shifted from one foot to the other, as if uncertain what to do next. When he held out a small box, it was done with a sense of desperation. "I brought you this." He paused when she didn't move to take it. "Sam . . . I mean Major Carter said I should bring it to you."

Janet sighed and slipped her unread letter back into its envelope. "Well, since you're already here, you might as well come in." She beckoned with her hand. "Come on in. I don't bite . . .much."

When he was standing next to her desk, she looked up and smiled, very aware that she hadn't invited him to sit down. That had been no accident. Surprisingly, he hadn't tried to. It probably helped that the only other chair available was piled high with charts.

"Now, what was so important that you had to barge into my office?"

Rodney lips stretched in an ingratiating smile, exactly the wrong tact to try with her, though his social skills being what they were, she figured he wouldn't pick up on it until it was too late.

"I have something for the colonel, a little something that I whipped up in my spare time."

"Oh?" Janet wasn't giving an inch. It wouldn't hurt to make him sweat a little. She'd heard about his ill thought – and considering who he's said it to, very dangerous – remark.

He held up the box and shook it, which made the contests rattle. "These pellets are radiation sensors. He, Colonel O'Neill I mean – swallows them, they travel through his digestive system and when they come out, they'll tell us how much radiation is left in his body."

Janet remained silent but her mind was working furiously. Rodney took her silence badly and launched into an explanation. "I worked out a color-code that will tell us how much short-ray radiation is left . . ."

Janet waved her hands to get his attention. "Wait a minute."

"What?" Rodney looked stunned, either that or constipated, and knowing Rodney, that was quite likely.

"You're saying that these pellets will show us how much radiation activity occurred during their transit of the colonel's body once they're expelled?"

Rodney blinked as if he were checking her words for some hidden meaning. "That's what I said."

Janet sprang to her feet, grabbed Rodney's face in both hands, and deposited a kiss on his lips. "That's just what I needed!"

Then she dropped her hands to her hips and stood, eyeball-to-eyeball and glared at him. "And if you ever barge into my office like that again, Mister Rodney McKay . . ."

When he flinched away from her, she knew she'd hit home. "Well, let's just say that you'll need a full exam and shots before you leave for Russia."

Rodney's face turned pasty white as his Adam's apple bobbed nervously in his throat.

"That means a prostate exam and all your shots. Do you get my drift?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Rodney squeaked out, and then he dropped the box of pellets on her desk and beat all present speed records as he exited her office

**oXo**

Jonas kept his smile firmly in place as he watched Colonel O'Neill retch helplessly on the bed in front of him. Just in the nick of time, He'd shoved the basin under the man's chin, just in time for the majority of the contents of his stomach to be spewed into the basin.

As he watched, Jack curled into a ball, one arm wrapped around his stomach as he heaved once again. Then he collapsed back onto the pillow, obviously spent from the effort.

Jonas dabbed at Colonel O'Neill's face with a damp cloth he'd found on the bedside table, part of the supplies Dr. Fraiser had said he'd need. Now he understood exactly why. And he also understood the colonel's earlier cryptic comment about being ready to catch.

"Sorry," Jack gasped. "Didn't . . . do . . . on purpose . . ."

"I know you didn't, colonel." Jonas assured him as he continued to wipe the remnants of the naquadah solution from his chin and arm where it'd splattered.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Jonas looked worried. "To make you more comfortable, I mean?"

Jack sighed and shook his head. "More?"

"Why don't you let me take care of this first? Then we'll see if you need anymore. Okay?" Jonas gingerly lifted the half-full basin and set it on the table. "I'll let Dr. Fraiser know you still can't keep it down."

Jack nodded but said nothing, his pants overly loud in the room. Jonas took a second to study his team leader, in the days since he'd piloted the X-302, he'd seemed to have shrunk to a mere shadow of his former self.

His ribcage showed beneath the pressure bandages and his frame, always lanky, was whip thin now. The skin on his face seemed papery thin, stretched taut over a skull-like visage that seemed to consist of nothing more than bruised and blotchy skin. His wispy hair looked brittle and stuck up at odd angles that seemed to defy his usual orderly manner.

The only part of his face that seemed alive were his eyes, which burned with an unnatural fury, as if incensed at the radiation that seemed determined to reduce his body to a cinder.

Jonas turned away from him and turned his attention to the basin, the liquid could be recognized as the solution he'd so recently swallowed, but it was stained liberally with crimson streaks.

"I'll be right back, Colonel."

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jonas fidgeted from foot to foot waiting politely for Janet to finish with the two team personnel being patched up. In his mind, he could still vividly see the emesis bowl containing a streak of blood and the faint pink that colored the colonel's near gray lips.

With the utmost care, he had wiped the bloodstains from the colonel's chin clean with a damp cloth, all too eager to erase the reminder that it was his inaction that had caused the death of a man who had been willing to sacrifice himself for a people who he didn't even know, himself included. It should have been him, he should have done something, but he had hesitated, and a man who he had just met 'had' acted – and died – in his place. Now every move Jonas made – everything he did – were those of a man determined to make restitution for that awful sacrifice.

For now, Colonel O'Neill was curled on his side, his gray lips and parchment-thin skin a reminder of his complicity in acquiring the naquadria, the instrument of another possible death that could be laid at his door.

Quinn had to ensure that Colonel O'Neill survived, not just as a salve to his own guilt-ridden conscience, but also to stay true to his vow to act as Daniel Jackson's stand-in on this plain of existence. Yes, he knew that Jackson was not 'technically' dead. But would such an evolved being, awash in the knowledge and sensations of an entire universe be aware of the pain of just one man? Jonas would have liked to have believed yes, but there was so much and humans were so few in that larger scale. Who would notice if just one man suddenly ceased to be?

"Jonas?"

So deep in thought had he been that Doctor Fraiser had caught him unawares, rapidly his mind switched gears. The only miracle that would happen for the colonel would be one brought about by his friends and colleagues – and one very lonely and outcast alien – him.

"Doctor, I need to speak to you regarding Colonel O'Neill."

Janet Fraiser's face was thoughtful as he watched her study his face, something must have been favorable there because she gently led him to a quiet corner of the Infirmary where she explained the horrific appearance of blood in O'Neill's spew.

"While the blood in his vomit is alarming, I was expecting it." Janet laid a hand on his arm as he opened his mouth to object. "Wait and I'll explain."

Jonas smiled uncertainly and nodded.

"The blood signifies that the colonel's body has reached its tolerance limit to the Naquadah solution – or Naquadah Nectar as the colonel calls it. We're ready to initiate the next stage of his treatment, but I need to warn you that this will mean your duties become more . . . intimate." Janet's eyes searched his face for his reaction to her news.

"Intimate?" Quinn's eyes widened with unasked questions.

"Wait a minute; before you go jumping to conclusions, let me explain. I want to assure you that there will be a limit to the amount of physical contact you have with the colonel, mainly for his own peace of mind. Full clean up will still be done by my nursing staff. He might be very ill, but Colonel O'Neill's dignity needs to be preserved at all costs."

Jonas nodded, relieved. "Of course, Doctor, I'll do whatever you want me to. It's the least I can do to make up for my part in this mess."

Janet paused and then nodded as she appeared to be evaluating his statement. "The colonel will receive several injections for the pain and to ease his body's attempt to reject the Nectar, so will be barely conscious during this phase. You will be in charge of his feeding and physical needs, but not bathing. My nurses will handle that. Besides, I don't think the colonel would stand for it anyway, no matter how sick or out of it he might be."

Jonas flashed back to his first inadvertent view of the colonel sprawled on the floor, and the man's horrified reaction. He knew from the warmth that crept up his neck and face that he was flushed red with embarrassment.

No, Doctor Fraiser was right, any repeat of that episode would do more harm than good. And so far, the doctor had not asked him to do anything that he wasn't willing to do.

"I totally agree. The last thing I want to do is to make the colonel any more uncomfortable than he already is about the whole situation."

Janet smiled and seemed relieved. "Good, I knew I could count on you. We're ready to start the next phase of his treatment. And, as much as I hate to admit it, we have Rodney McKay to thank for part of it."

Jonas cocked his head in puzzled surprise. "McKay?"

"Yes, he designed pellets to be taken internally by the colonel. As they pass through his digestive system, they will detect any radiation left in his body. Once they are excreted, the pellets will tell us how effective the Naquadah Nectar was and just when its use can be stopped." Janet looked tired but smiled with encouragement. "So there is an end in sight, and part of your job will be to convince our patient that there is hope. I won't kid you, Jonas. Both his physical and mental conditions have taken a beating and his energy reserves are at an all-time low. Your encouragement will be critical to convincing Colonel O'Neill that there is a light at the end of the tunnel."

"So the pellets will be passed through his digestive system and come out in his . . .?"

Janet pursed her lips primly which made Jonas suspect she'd already thought this part through, "Yes, in his bowel movements. So it is essential that this be monitored closely."

"Will I have to . . . find the pellets . . . after . . .?"

Janet smiled mischievously, "No, I think your duties will not encompass that area. It will be your job to watch over the colonel and convince him to hold on, that he's already gotten through the worst of it."

"I just hope I'm up to it, Doctor."

Janet sighed and looked worried. "So do I, Jonas. So do I."

**oXo**

Janet had breezed in and injected something that made him floaty, but it did moderate the endless cramping – almost. Then she'd given him some white pellets to take, though the explanation didn't make much sense at the time, something about mini-radiation sensors?

No, matter, he'd have willingly taken cyanide, if only for the promise that his agony would finally be at an end. But this promised more than a simple end to . . . everything, so he'd swallowed them and hoped they stayed down. Thus far, they had – which was a huge relief.

Now his discomfort consisted of rolling waves of contractions that rippled across his abdomen like the ripples in his pond that surrounded the bobber at the end of his fishing line. They traveled over his stomach and then descended into that lower area before Carter Country began. Thankfully those waves drowned out the firebrands atop his shoulders and made the late maddening itch just another bad memory.

Curiously, his stomach seemed to be absent. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. In fact, that was something to cheer about. That is if only he had enough energy to give a damn. Which he didn't.

She'd muttered something about how he'd reached his tolerance level. Then she had gone on to explain that the reason that she hadn't done this sooner was because what with the flu he was suffering from – even if he was at the end of that – it had been difficult to tell if the Nectar or the 'bug' was causing the problem.

Jack guessed it was the blood he'd started to puke up that decided her. He could feel her worry clear through the door and it worried him that she was worried. Heck, he'd even volunteered to take more than the prescribed amount of the stuff.

Then she'd told him that he could – after – the injections. That really worried him. But then he'd stopped worrying; it took way too much energy. And he just plain didn't have any to spare.

Now he just lay here enduring again. Somehow it was even worse than before. He just wasn't' sure why yet. Give him time, though, he'd figure it out. Provided he had the time left to do it in.

All the crapping and puking explained why he was so beat, hurting and despondent. Yep, he had been and he could admit that to himself. Contrary to what some others thought, he knew that he had problems, but he knew his limitations too. He got blue just like everyone else, just maybe a little bit more often. He just didn't allow himself to indulge. Not usually anyway. But this was different – like a cancer eating him away from the inside out.

A cool cloth lightly skimmed across his face and he didn't even start, being beyond reacting anymore. The warm moisture felt good against his tight dry skin and he couldn't help the moan of guilty pleasure at just letting go. Just allowing himself to drift, savoring the comfort others were willing to provide. Pride be damned. Pride took too much energy, so did thinking. It was much easier to just drift . . .

**oXo**

General Hammond stepped away from the bay window in the briefing room and skirted the table as he headed for his office. Behind him, the new Russian 'gate slowly descended from the hole in the ceiling, guided by the expert directions of Siler and McKay, despite Rodney's superior 'I'm the genius here' interference. The Russians had taken their time in delivering on their part of the bargain, but at long last it had arrived.

George smiled as he settled into his chair and picked up the latest report from Dr. Fraiser. It concerned his 2IC, Colonel Jack O'Neill. George nodded as he read, the pellets had been given to him and the medical staff were awaiting their reappearance. He grunted with satisfaction.

"General?" Walter Harriman looked apologetic as he stood just inside his office door. "Captain Christian from the Enterprise is on line one for you."

"Fine. I've been expecting his call. Thank you, Sergeant."

He picked up his phone. "Hammond."

There was a short burst of static that made George wince. "This is Captain Christian, sir. I wanted to thank you for sending us our flight suit. It arrived about half an hour ago, special delivery."

"I'm glad to hear that. And what about my man's suit?"

"That's what I was calling about. It was located and put onboard one of our out-bound choppers. You should be getting it at any time now. By the way, how is your man doing?"

"He's been pretty sick, but we have hopes that he'll make a full recovery."

"That's good to hear. Let me know if there's anything else we can do to help."

"I'll do that, and thanks for all you've done."

"Not a problem. Always glad to help. Christian out."

**oXo**

Despite Doctor Fraiser's reassurances Jonas watched a quiescent Colonel O'Neill. He knew the man blamed him for his friend's absence, yet he lay docilely and allowed him to care for him. Drinking when requested, taking the pellets without complaint. No words were spoken, no eye contact made. Jonas worried. This was not the Colonel O'Neill he knew. That vibrant, larger-than-life man was absent.

It was the drugs. Doctor Fraiser explained their importance, but he detected something, something she'd not voiced; and the look in the colonel's eyes as he watched her inject them into his IV. Even in his current state of disconnected being, the colonel would drift back to watch each and every injection given each and every time by Fraiser – and by no one else.

Jonas just knew that the drugs was something the colonel didn't approve of, that look on his face that proclaimed his distrust and abhorrence of being drugged to somnolence during the injection was way too close to the look turned his way in the man's few unguarded moments.

The only break in the near monotony of keeping watch over his charge was broken by the quiet moans and restlessness that accompanied the colonel's bowel movements; a painful process, insulting because it accumulated into such a personal degradation of privacy.

But this time there was more than a suspension of personal dignity. Joyce, the lead of the two nurses who were present to cleanse the colonel of his latest degradation gave him the most out of place smile he'd ever witnessed. Especially considering she was gazing in rapt wonder at the soiled linen just removed from under his team leader, he was extremely puzzled.

"Well, well, would you look at that?"

Puzzled enough to look himself, at her invitation; he smiled just as wondrously himself at when he saw what lay within the smelly crumpled bedding.

"I think Mr. McKay needs to become involved in his project. Don't you agree?" Joyce asked with a smile that reminded Jonas of the mischievous glint in the eyes of Doctor Fraiser earlier.

Quinn's own smile was just a radiant as he nodded. "I'll go find him."

He knew just where to look and found the man lurking just outside Major Carter's lab. Without preamble or explanation he hooked his arm through McKay's and dragged him sputtering and squawking down the halls of the SGC, causing a stir of laughter and consternation in the personnel lucky enough to witness it.

Jonas succeeded in pulling McKay into the small room previously reserved for the purpose that he'd brought the man to the Infirmary for.

"What the Hell is this all about?" Shouted an angry, red-faced Rodney.

"Hold on, the explanation is about to be delivered," Jonas smiled disarmingly and mimed taking a few deep cleansing breaths, encouraging the man to relax.

Soon the door bumped open catching McKay's attention as a burdened Infirmary nurse backed into the room.

**oXo**

Joyce set the sealed laundry container on the table between McKay and Quinn. With no more explanation than a quick smile that bordered on a knowing smirk, she turned and left the room at a trot.

McKay took the initiative and opened the container; he danced back, one hand over his mouth while the other pinched shut his nose. "Argh! What is that . . . shit?"

Jonas carefully moved closer, but moved back as his own nose caught a whiff of what was escaping from the open container. "I think that's it, exactly."

McKay gaped in horror. "You aren't serious."

"I'm afraid that I am," Jonas replied as he kept his distance from the open container.

McKay's face paled as the reason for the odiferous delivery dawned on him. "No, it can't be."

"What?" That question was uttered with a distinctive feminine tone and definitely did not belong to Jonas, unless he had serious problems with his underwear that Rodney didn't want to know about.

Janet Fraiser laughed and Rodney jumped. When had she come into the room? And more importantly, why was she here?

"You don't want to look for your pellets, Rodney?"

"I'm not touching that!" McKay animatedly pointed back at the table, all the while standing as far away as possible.

"Neither am I! It was your idea," Quinn calmly declared.

"But . . . but . . . I'm the genius," Rodney almost shouted, red-faced and upset.

"And I'm not? I didn't see you reciting the Iliad in its original Greek to the colonel."

"Jonas has duties elsewhere," Janet ground out with the finality and triumph of Patton ordering his tanks into Berlin. "Now."

Jonas left the room like a man given a last minute reprieve, which, Rodney considered ruefully, wasn't that far off base. _'But it's not fair. A genius like me shouldn't have to . . . dirty his hands in . . . this.'_

Rodney smiled at the woman who seemed to have become his executioner somewhere along the way. "Surely you don't mean for me to . . ." His hands fluttered in the direction of the open container. "Do you?"

Janet crossed her arms and, for someone who he swore was shorter than he was, managed to look him dead in the eye. "Do what?"

"You know what I mean . . ."

"No, suppose you spell it out to me, Rodney. I'm not a genius like you and can't figure these things out by myself."

Rodney winced. _'She'd heard that? Oh, that wasn't good. Not that I meant anything bad about it. I was, after all, just stating the facts. Surely she understood that . . . didn't she?'_

"Oh, yes, that." Rodney's smile withered like the leaf of a tree in a late spring freeze.

"Yes, that." Janet kept her arms crossed, the tapping of her toes on the concrete keeping time with her words. "Did you, or did you not, make a promise to me that you would handle the recovery of your pellets?"

McKay shrugged and looked away. "Well, technically, yes I did, but I . . ."

"Technically?" The woman had somehow snuck up on him again and Rodney jumped at her uncomfortable proximity to his person. _'How does she do that_?' he wondered.

"Mister McKay, do I need to schedule you for your prostate exam? With the visiting medical trainees?"

"But I didn't . . ." Rodney gasped and clenched his buttocks together in anticipation of the threatened invasion. "I really didn't think my pellets . . ."

"You didn't think your pellets would come out mixed in a bowel movement?" She arched her eyebrows in seeming disbelief. "What did you think it would be? Tapioca pudding?"

"That's not fair," Rodney snapped as a crimson stain spread from his shirt collar up into his face.

"Quite frankly, Mister McKay, all I care about is the welfare of my patient. And your idiotic pride is stopping me from doing that. Or would you rather I inform Major Carter of your refusal to uphold your promise to me . . . and her?"

"You . . ." his mouth opened and shut like a beached mackerel gasping for air. "You and her?"

"Talk?" Janet smiled grimly. "At every opportunity. That's what friends do." Her words left the impression that she didn't think he would know about that because he didn't have any – friends that is.

He frowned as he realized she might know something that he didn't – social-relationship-wise, and then comforted himself with the sure knowledge that his IQ had to be at least 20 points higher than hers. He studiously ignored the niggling little voice that reminded him that Samantha's IQ was at least as high as his, if not higher – and that she had friends – friends like Doctor Fraiser.

When that voice went on to state that she was also much more creative than he was, he told it firmly to shut up. It didn't listen, as usual.

For once he had very little to say. The female Hitler seemed to take his silence as his acquiescence to her wishes. _'Smart woman.'_

"I brought you the supplies you'll need." She pointed to a table piled high. "You'll find face masks, gloves, and plenty of disinfectant. Be sure to use them. The last thing I need is for you to get contaminated through your own carelessness."

Even though she'd left the room her very angry and domineering aura lingered. Rodney reflected that she had left him with the distinct impression that she had severe doubts as to his ability to use her supplies correctly.

On the other hand, he wondered if he could move up his departure time for Siberia. It was beginning to look positively sunny in comparison to the chilly reception he was getting from Dr. Fraiser, not to mention what Samantha Carter would say to him if he reneged on his promise to her.

'_But it's not fair,'_ he whined to himself. _'Shut up and start sifting shit, Rodney.' _Why did his inner voice sound more and more like the doctor instead of his mother?

**oXo**

Major Samantha Carter knocked on the door of General Hammond's office and paused with her hand still raised. Her other hand was fisted at her side.

"General Hammond?"

The general closed the lid of his laptop and waved her inside. "Come in, Major. What can I do for you?"

"I finished testing the colonel's flight suit, sir."

"Good . . . and the results?"

"According to my tests, the residual radiation levels in the suit were far below what any of us, including me, expected. This leads me to believe that my original hypothesis that the iris protected or diverted the worst of the radiation away from the colonel was correct."

"So, no long-term damage to his body once his treatment is completed?"

Sam flushed and nibbled on her lower lip. "Sir, insofar as my limited knowledge of medicine goes, damage to a human would be low to nil. Of course we won't know for certain until Dr. Fraiser runs some tests with . . ."

Her voice died away and she ducked her head with embarrassment as she realized what she was about to say, and to whom she was about to say it to. Thankfully, the general seemed not to notice. Or at least didn't comment on it, for which she was immensely grateful. Come to think of it, there was very little that escaped the notice of General Hammond. Perhaps it was best that certain things were left unsaid – for now.

"Good, I'm certain that we are all relieved to hear that, as will be the colonel when he's told."

"Do you want me to . . .?"

"No, I think Dr. Fraiser would be the right person to do that, major."

"But I . . ."

"As much as I hate it, we have to respect the colonel's wishes. Which means that he gets his privacy. God knows the man deserves it considering all that he's been through lately."

Sam stifled any further protest. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Hammond's face softened. "I know this has been hard on you, Sam. The members of SG-1 have all been very close. That's part of what makes your team so successful and special. And with the recent death of Dr. Jackson, I know you wanted to be there for him. But he wants his privacy. We need to respect his wishes in that. We owe the man that much."

Sam nodded and left any other words she might have voiced unsaid. The important thing was that her dream of their future together as husband and wife was still intact – the colonel – Jack – could still give her the children she wanted. That was what was most important.

While it was true that she would have liked to have given him the news herself, buts she realized it would probably be more proper for Janet to do it. Besides, she hadn't been sure she would have been able to tell him without crossing the line that took their relationship out of the room like they'd promised.

Yes, she could live with that. And what was more important, the colonel could – and would – too.

tbc . . .


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Jonas had imagined that the last couple of days were the worst as far as his experience in dealing with a critically ill Jack O'Neill. His team leader's non-responsiveness and downright scary compliance had been enough to send him running to Doctor Fraiser more times than she really wanted. He could tell; he could see it in her face. She believed he was overreacting.

To his dismay, he discovered that he was wrong though, very wrong. It could – and would – get worse. Much worse. Only . . . not the way he imagined.

Dr. Rodney McKay finally had left for Siberia, and everyone had breathed a collective sigh of relief. Though the scientist had tried to help, in his own bumbling fashion, his social ineptitude grated on everyone's nerves, including Quinn's. Sure, he was grateful for the creative idea of the pellets for O'Neill's sake, but McKay didn't let anyone forget it was his idea. One could only be grateful for so long.

The two days that the man slept – even when Jonas had tried to wake him, repeatedly – had Jonas convinced he was dying. Even after it had been patiently explained that O'Neill's body needed rest.

Recovery since the ending of the Naquadah Nectar regime after the fourth batch of pellets were expelled and pronounced totally clear of any evidence of residual radiation. Even after the next two batches – given as a precaution, along with four more doses of the Nectar – still arrived unscathed by radiation, he was convinced that all was not well.

Jonas now knew better.

Colonel O'Neill woke in a foul and noisy mood and the first thing that Jonas discovered was that all the attentive nurses – so ready to help before – could not now be found even by shouting into the seemingly empty Infirmary. And on those rare occasions that Fraiser appeared, she gave him instructions that, on the surface, sounded simple and easy to follow.

"Get him to eat, and don't let him out of bed."

Yes, on the surface it did sound simple, ridiculously so. Or so he thought at the time.

First Jonas had to get out of the Infirmary to get the food, and since he had no idea what kind of food, he asked the cook. The cook looked extremely happy to hear that he needed food for the colonel and provided a tray of small cups of colored gelatin and small bottles of juice and an insulated container of hot broth.

So far, it had been relatively simple.

Getting back with this bounty unfortunately proved nearly impossible, it seemed that everyone had heard about his errand and wished to inquire about the colonel. Yet not one would help him haul the heavy tray to the man in question. No, when he asked, they all insisted that they were much too busy and had to be elsewhere – immediately – if not sooner. That in itself should have been his first clue that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

After what seemed like forever, he made it back to O'Neill's room with the tray full of food for the colonel.

The room was empty.

"Don't just stand there like an idiot, give me a hand!"

Thank goodness he'd set that tray down on the first flat surface he could find, otherwise its contents would have covered the floor after hearing that raspy squawk from thin air.

Beckoning fingers popped up over the edge of the empty bed alerting him to the source of the voice that he hardly recognized as Colonel O'Neill. And sure enough the man himself was slumped full length on the floor beside his bed along with part of the bed sheet draped around him.

Jonas would learn – through experience – lots of experience.

O'Neill was heavy. He was stubborn.

And Jonas kept finding him on the floor way too often. The only change in the routine was that he got further and further away from the bed before hitting it – the floor that is. Conversely, the colonel did not get any lighter. Realistically, he knew it wasn't so, but the man seemed to gain fifty pounds each time Jonas had to pick him up off the floor.

Forget trying to get him to eat either.

"You don't have red. I want red jell-o."

"Pizza, I want pizza."

"You're kidding?" This comment was directed at the oatmeal.

"I'm bored."

"No, not that. The bathroom."

It was complain, complain, and complain some more.

"When the hell do I get to go home?"

Soon was Quinn's hope. And that thought made him feel such a traitor to his vow. After all, it was his job to fetch and carry for O'Neill. Daniel must have been the greatest of friends to have endured this kind of servitude for five years.

So all Jonas could do was place himself between O'Neill and his too-soon wants and desires. And in so doing he discovered that making it appear that he was giving in slowed the colonel down, at least enough so that Jonas could keep up. The man could barely stand unaided, but always seemed to be leaving him behind. How the colonel managed to do that was something Jonas hadn't been able to figure out yet.

"Going for a walk."

Jonas told him he would get him a wheel chair.

"Going for a run."

Jonas did an about face and decided that it would be wiser if he walked with him. He could fetch the wheelchair later.

"Look what Siler snuck in."

Jonas helped him clean up the suddenly regurgitated sandwich before Fraiser popped in on one of her flying visits.

His reward for taking the flak and feeling his way through getting the colonel well again was seeing the man slowly recover. Flesh started filling out, bandages started coming off, more and better varieties of foods became available. That made his present hell bearable – almost. Soon, very soon, Jonas hoped that he might be able to actually sleep in a bed again – uninterrupted even.

**oXo **

Teal'c's eyes snapped open as his symbiote showed its discord with the decision to follow the tradition to honor his wife, Drey'auc, she who was born of the Cordai Plains. Numerous candles, their lengths surrounded by melted mounds of wax flickered about the darkened room and his eyes automatically adjusted to the dimness within, an apt reflection of his own inner isolation.

In life, Drey'auc had staunchly upheld the old traditions, thus, Teal'c knew his decision to renounce his allegiance to Apophis must have been doubly hard for her to understand, much less support. So many times in the past, before the fateful day of his defection from the ranks that called Apophis their god, she had rebuked his misgivings and doubts, urging him to forget his dangerous thoughts.

For not only had his decision placed her and their son, Rya'c, in mortal danger. When he left Chulak with SG-1, they had lost the security and prestige that his previous position as First Prime had provided. Later, when she had renewed their relationship and made his cause her own, he had been pleased, but surprised. But that was how she was, passionate in her likes and dislikes – she was a warm sunny day when pleased, and as stormy and tempestuous as the cold season when angry.

Teal'c marveled anew how her act of self-sacrifice was so in keeping with her ardent manner, for she was a passionate woman who loved and hated with equal ardor. When confronted with her mature symbiote, she had chosen death rather than sacrifice an unknown Jaffa to her own needs, even if that Jaffa still served a Goa'uld out of his own ignorance or fear.

Tradition demanded that he mourn her passing with three days of fasting without food or drink, however, the circumstances surrounding her death had not allowed him this luxury. The mother of his son would have found a way to strike him down with her fury if he had shirked his duty toward Rya'c. And Rya'c's need for his father's love and acceptance had never been greater.

Their son had reacted with anger, striking out toward his father, blaming him for his mother's untimely death. It took time for that anger to abate, forging a bond that brought father and son closer together. Then, almost before her ashes from the funeral pyre had cooled, he, along with Bra'tac and his son, had been thrown into battle against Anubis and his Jaffa Army.

Teal'c smiled with pride as he remembered Rya'c's courage in battle. Drey'auc would have been proud of their son and he wished with a pang that she could have witnessed their son's heroic actions that led to the destruction of the weapon of the Ancients that Anubis had used against his brothers, the Tau'ri.

Teal'c believed that surely the Kaloch of such an honorable wife and mother as she had been granted the boon of residence at the heavenly Kheb. If he were worthy of ascension, at death his soul would make the final journey to reside with her there.

It was only after bidding good-bye to Bra'tac and his son that Teal'c had felt free to honor his departed wife in a way that was fitting to her memory. His brother, O'Neill's request that he be left alone in the Infirmary fit well with his need to mourn the passing of his wife. Now, his three days of fasting would come to an end and he would leave his self-imposed seclusion.

His abdomen heaved as his symbiote thrashed within its womb; it was hungry and resented his fasting. Teal'c sent waves of reassurance; he would eat and drink soon. But first, he must see O'Neill, by subterfuge if need be.

He opened the door to his room and lingered a moment in the doorway as his eyes adjusted to the bright hallway. Then he headed for the most likely spot for his prey. O'Neill had been confined to his bed in the Infirmary, an area that had been forbidden to him by O'Neill's wishes.

Until now, he had been willing to abide by those wishes. However, now he was not. As he neared the corridor that intersected with the entrance to the Infirmary, he became more cautious, moving as if he were in enemy territory. His stealthy footsteps went unnoticed by those he sought. When he heard familiar voices, he flattened against the wall and crept forward.

"What are you doing so far from your bed, Colonel?" Dr. Fraiser stood, hands on her hips in front of O'Neill who was seated in a wheelchair. Jonas stood behind him.

"Me? Just out for a walk," Jack winced and adopted a look of seeming innocence, an expression Teal'c had come to recognize as one designed to mislead others.

"And you," Dr. Fraiser turned her ire on the accomplice, Jonas Quinn. "I gave you orders not to let him overdo it."

"I . . . we were on our way back . . . honest." Jonas, obviously not as skilled at subterfuge, could not hold her gaze and looked away.

"Good, see that he gets back to his bed."

"Yes, ma'am." Jonas nodded and smiled eagerly, but did not move.

"Now would be nice." Dr. Fraiser crossed her arms across her chest and glared at the pair. "Not later, not in a few hours, but now."

Jonas swiveled the wheelchair in place and pushed it back down the hall toward the Infirmary.

Meanwhile, Dr. Fraiser continued on in the opposite direction. Nearing the intersection where Teal'c had secreted himself, she paused for a moment; head cocked, and then shook her head and continued on her way. "You need a vacation, Janet," she muttered to herself. "Now you're jumping at shadows."

Teal'c waited until the doctor had passed before moving into the intersection. Ahead of him, he could hear raised voices.

"Think Doc bought our story?" O'Neill tipped his head back to talk to his driver, Jonas.

"No, I don't think she did. She knows you too well. It's just a good thing that I got you into this wheelchair when I did or she would have caught you."

"Aw, her bark is worse than her bite. Besides, I knew what I was doing." O'Neill bent forward, cupping his chin with his palms. "And I was doing just fine without you."

Jonas stopped the wheelchair to lean forward over his charge as he gasped with apparent disbelief and outrage. "I found you on your knees on the floor, Colonel. If I hadn't shown up when I did, Dr. Fraiser would have found you on the floor . . . again."

"I was doing fine; besides, there's no crime in sitting down on the floor if you want. Is there?"

Jonas raised both hands in the air. "I don't believe this!"

"What?"

"You!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you! Just last week you were at death's door. And now you won't follow doctor's orders on anything."

"That was last week. Now I'm better."

Teal'c nodded and silently backed away. As he returned the way he'd come, he reflected that it was clear to him that O'Neill was indeed on the road to recovery. And most fortuitous of all, he was bonding well with his newest team member, Jonas Quinn.

**oXo **

Janet flattened against the wall as Jonas shot out of Colonel O'Neill's private Infirmary room, he didn't slow or acknowledge her as he dashed for the outer hallway.

"Leaf lettuce, I say, none of that damned Iceberg!"

The colonels' bellow had much improved over the last couple of days; he was in fine voice as she finally attempted to walk past the open doorway.

_'No, you are not sneaking past the colonel's doorway. You just want to ensure that he isn't disturbed. That's why you're tiptoeing,' _she told herself firmly. _'Yeah, Janet. And if you repeat that enough times you might even believe it.' _

"Doc."

She was tempted to continue on; she really didn't relish another session of 'when do I get to go home?'

"Doc . . . Please." His voice was soft but held a plea for her attention that his usual temper tantrums didn't have.

She hesitated, thinking. The man could guilt-trip her so easily with that little-boy-lost voice of his. But the use of that final plea worried her, that wasn't a word that he used in their verbal fencing about his release from her care. Something was wrong.

Leaning back, she peeped into the room; Jack sat meekly on the bed, just looking at her, a far cry from the tyrant who had just sent Jonas scurrying on yet another trivial errand.

"What, Colonel?"

"Ah, I have a request."

"Colonel," liberally injecting a warning tone in her voice. So help her, if this was another one of his games . . .

"Please." His low plea pulled her in once again. She lamented being such a sucker for brave honorable men who were ill or injured. "Janet . . . "

_'Oh, now I'm worried!' _

"Colonel?" Janet sat in his bedside chair, all the while watching him for some clue as to what he wanted and to determine whether or not he was on the up and up. He fiddled with something in his hand, concealing it with those beautifully long fingers of his. She waited; he would speak when he was ready.

One hand suddenly flipped open revealing his current play object; one of the pellets lay there starkly revealed. Inanely she wondered if it was one of those that had traveled through him. Or, if not, where he'd gotten it?

"I have to know," O'Neill said without preamble, Janet's mind scrambled to deduce the meaning of his words.

Jack's hand fisted over the pellet before he turned to search her eyes.

"I know you and Carter believe that there was no damage . . . " His eyes flicked toward his groin covered by the sheet. "But I want to be sure.

She knew that he would never say why, this conversation alone was more than she'd ever expected on such a deeply private subject.

Janet took a deep breath before answering. "There is only one way to know, sir," Janet dropped into military address to provide the necessary emotional shielding she knew he would need – that they both needed.

"Yeah, I know. Only . . . only, well, I don't know how to say this," his still slightly pale face pinked with distress.

"Sir, your body has been through a lot. Normal responses will take time to reestablish themselves." In her heart she knew this to be true. But to him, one case of dysfunction would seem catastrophic. "I'll need a sample to answer your question."

This time she didn't look at him but she wished she had when a strangled sound came from his direction. The man wasn't entirely easy to shock, but she'd bet this conversation would provide more than a few jolts to his recovering system – and his emotional state.

"How?"

"Self-manipulation," she answered in her best dry clinical manner hoping like hell that he wouldn't expect further explanation. "Sir."

"But, if . . ." Jack hedged verbally.

Janet had a sobering thought and put it into words. "Sir, you haven't?"

"Dammit, no!" Silence stood between them a beat longer than totally necessary. "Sorry Janet."

"Sir, I understand. This is a touchy and deeply personal subject. But I had to ask, I had to know the circumstances in order to advise you."

"And, your advice?"

"I'll bring you a sample cup. I'm positive that with the proper," she paused as she searched for the right words to use. "Mental image, you'll be able to provide me what I'll need to answer your questions."

He looked so miserable sitting there that she reached out and patted him on the leg.

"There's no hurry, sir. Just try. Don't expect it to work the first time, or even the second. You were very ill. When you succeed – and you will," Janet caught his eye and smiled with encouragement, "Call me."

Rising she headed for the door, his 'Thanks,' softly filled the room as she left to finish her rounds.

**oXo **

"Colonel, do you need help in there?" Jack jumped at the sound of Quinn's voice. He sent a mental message, _'Whatever you do, do not come in now, Jonas!' _

"No. Did you find that book?"

"Yes."

"Gameboy?"

"Right here."

"Bet you didn't get the Tetris cartridge."

"Ah, that would be a no."

"Well, have to have it ya know."

"I'll find it."

Jack could hear the impatient sigh even through the door, but was listening for and heard the sounds of Jonas' passage across his sick room and out into the hall; and waited for the click of the door shutting. Something that had puzzled his fetch-and-carry volunteer, but the kid was good at doing what he asked.

Besides closing the door and keeping it closed was by far the simplest solution. Quinn's compliance caused Jack to sometimes forget that he represented his loss of Daniel, the slow burn of anger momentarily lost in the adjustment of co-existing with the man he still held responsible for that particular FURBAR.

With more reluctance than effort Jack jerked his mind back to the job at hand. He glared at the sample container while trying to ignore the condom that needed one of his hands to keep it in place, something he found rather embarrassing. A glance into the mirror showed him an uncharacteristically beet-red face. Since when did his emotions have this kind of free rein?

He uncategorically refused to use Carter as fodder for his fantasies, so this was turning into a Holy Grail sort of quest. It refused to rise to the occasion – to any occasion.

"Oh for crying out loud," he muttered with disgust. "What's so hard about this anyway?"

He missed his team, his freedom, his ability to go where and when he willed. He missed her smile. That stunned look in her eye when he said something a little too revealing about his understanding of her explanation. He . . .

_'Oops. Speaking of hard . . .' _

Jack smiled, he'd feel guilty later he decided as he let nature take an old and familiar course.

**oXo **

It had been a long few weeks and Jonas was undecided if he were happy or sad that his close association with Colonel O'Neill was at an end. He really wouldn't miss the man's constant complaining, that was certain, even if said complaining was his way of making him pay for his hand in Daniel Jackson's death. O'Neill's admitting to that made him feel guilty, mainly because no matter how distasteful being with the colonel during this time was, he know the man worked for a higher ideal. An ideal his own world would be a better place for if they too strove for such.

"Jonas?"

He had to admit, for better or worse, he would miss the man.

"Hey."

He was much smarter than he let on. After all, who else could understand the Iliad in Greek. Especially since it was essentially a dead language on Earth he'd discovered to his dismay.

"Dammit, Jonas, put the socks down."

"If they aren't the ones you want I can go get another pair," Jonas replied absentmindedly in an even voice he'd discovered was the best tone to take with this temperamental man. Yes, he was difficult, but so loyal to his team and friends. He sighed, if only he could truly be one of the latter and hopefully he could live up to the former.

"Jonas."

It wasn't his name that alarmed him; he'd heard it said hundreds of times, but not in this tone. He whirled around, the pair of socks in one hand and mentally halfway through the inventory of O'Neill's clothing back in his on-base living quarters seeking their replacement. He stared at the man seated on the bedside chair, barefoot and agitated. He'd learned to read the man's moods.

"The socks are fine. I have something to say."

"Do you feel ill?" Jonas asked with alarm.

O'Neill looked up at him and shook his head. "No, I feel pretty good for a man that just dodged the big one."

Jonas smiled at the improvement in his attitude; he knew that the depression was finally lifting. A depression that ran to the whole base, it had been as if the lights had been restored to the base and darkness was becoming a dim memory.

"I just wanted to apologize."

The statement shocked Jonas, not that Colonel O'Neill would apologize, but that he wanted to apologize to him.

"Colonel, I don't believe you owe me one."

"I've been more than a bastard to you. No one should have had to deal with me in the condition I've been in. It would have been hard enough on the regular nurses, but . . ."

"It was my choice. I felt obligated."

"I've come to the conclusion that you are not obligated." Jack's lips firmed to a straight line. Something Jonas knew meant he was not going to change his mind.

"Not . . ."

"That's my only word on the subject and I appreciate what you've done to help me through this, even if it was Fraiser's idea. No one should have been expected to do what you did."

"You do . . ."

"But if you ever utter a single word about anything you've seen, well . . . I'd just have to shoot you," O'Neill grinned, taking the sting out of the threat, but Jonas knew he was serious – deadly serious. And he didn't blame him.

What he'd witnessed the man suffer through was more than enough to reduce his stature in the eyes of those that needed to see him as strong and capable.

"Seen?" Jonas tried to look innocent. "I've not seen nor heard anything. I've just run a few errands for you," he looked deeply into the man's eyes, willing him to believe that this was something that would not be passed on to another living soul.

O'Neill studied him closely for a few moments, his decision, for once, was plain to read in his face. They had just both agreed to forget a few things. It was Quinn's turn to smile.

"Do you need some help with the socks?"

Colonel O'Neill didn't reply, but did lift a foot.

"No, no help then," Jonas sat on the bedside chair and began pulling a sock onto the offered foot. "It must certainly be a relief to be doing things for yourself again. Bet you can't wait to get home to have a little privacy."

"You don't know the half of it," O'Neill muttered with enough honest emotion.

Jonas felt privileged the man trusted him enough to express that emotion. All the hardship, on both sides, had been worth it. Working together as a team would be possible now.

His only regret was that he was unable to follow the colonel home, going off-base to another military installation had been one thing, going into a civilian environment was still out of the question according to the powers-that-be.

He had to wonder about the list O'Neill had given him only the day before. Did he also regret that he could not come? Probably not, most of the items on the list were classes on self-defense, weapons and information the colonel wanted him to be familiar with. But it did show him how much he must have been forgiven for his role in Daniel Jackson's death; all of the items were to improve his performance as SG-1's newest teammate.

That filled Jonas with a measure of satisfaction and pride. It was enough to humble him. He had been accepted. It might not appear that way to the world at large, but he knew where it really counted, in the hearts and minds of O'Neill and his team, he was being given the chance to truly become one of them.

He vowed that he would not let them down.

tbc . . .


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

It seemed to take forever, but Dr. Fraiser finally permitted Jack to leave the Infirmary so that he could continue his recuperation in his own home. He'd tried to talk her into letting him drive himself there, but she'd put her foot down on that one, something about not trusting him that far yet.

_'Crap,'_ he thought. _'You'd think I'd been really sick or something.'_ He winced as he considered his own words_. 'Watch it, Jack. You were pretty sick. In fact you thought you'd bought it this time, for good.'_

So now he was perched on the side of the bed, waiting for whoever was supposed to drive him home, like some schoolboy who'd gotten in trouble at school and was waiting for the arrival of a possibly irate parent.

He straightened with surprise at the sight of two very familiar faces at his door. "Carter? Teal'c? Come to see me off?"

"No, sir. We're your ride home." Carter smiled, but it was tentative one, as if she wasn't sure where she stood with him.

"My ride home, you say?"

Teal'c inclined his head. "Indeed we are." The big man's mouth turned upward at the corners, which meant he was grinning from ear-to-ear and turning somersaults. Jack was going to have to talk to his Jaffa friend about lightening up just a little bit.

Jack rubbed his hands together in mock glee. "Good, then let's blow this joint before Doc changes her mind."

An authoritative voice made him jump. "Doc has not changed her mind, but I do have some last-minute instructions for you – along with your medicine and recommended diet."

"Diet?" Jack looked suspicious.

"Yes, your stomach is still pretty tender, so I would recommend that you eat bland foods for a few days. And no alcohol with this medicine."

"Bland? As in no taste whatsoever?" Jack looked doubtful and managed to project his disbelief in his words.

Carter's hand covered her mouth but he could tell she was grinning at his antics. As usual, Teal'c raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, Colonel, bland – unless you want a repeat of your earlier episode when you ate that sandwich that Siler snuck to you."

"Sandwich?" Jack tried to look innocent, but gave it up as a lost cause when Janet glared at him. "Oh, yeah. That sandwich."

Carter nibbled her lip and balled her fists at her side. "You saw Siler, sir?"

"Um, yeah, he dropped by to see how I was doing." Jack's face wrinkled with the effort as he stood on his feet. "No big deal."

Sam turned away, "If you say so, sir."

Jack blew his breath out and sighed. _'That went well,'_ he thought with sarcasm. _'No doubt about it, she's pissed.' _

At the time, his decision to keep his team members away from his room in order to prevent them from being subjected to his possible death had seemed like a good one. But now . . .

_'Crap,'_ Jack thought. _'So much for a happy reunion.' _

"Well, I'll meet you at the entrance with the car, Teal'c." Sam smiled brightly but her eyes were suspiciously moist.

"Your ride, Colonel." Janet stepped aside as Joyce pushed the wheelchair into the room.

Much subdued, Jack sank into the wheelchair. "Home, James."

"My name is not James, as you well know," Teal'c objected as he took up his position behind the chair.

"Yeah, whatever," Jack sank down even lower, his mood a match for his posture. Their ride to the surface took much longer than usual, mainly due to the numerous personnel who made a point to stop and chat with him. Overall, everyone seemed relieved that he was on the mend. He could well understand those sentiments. So was he.

Teal'c took it all in stride, seeming to have some innate sense that told him when Jack was tiring. By the time they took the final elevator ride to the surface, Jack was ready for a long nap. The promised car was waiting for them, but it wasn't Carter's. And if it were, her taste in vehicles had become much more conservative.

"Get new wheels, Carter?"

"No, sir. We couldn't fit everyone in my car, so General Hammond suggested I use an Air Force sedan."

"Ah," Jack nodded and smothered the thought of Teal'c trying to fit himself into Carter's backseat that bordered on the ridiculous.

"For which I thanked him profusely," Teal'c added somberly.

"Yeah, that would have been a tight fit." Jack took a deep breath and tried to summon up the energy to stand.

Seeming to appear from out of nowhere, Teal'c was at his side. "Allow me to assist you, O'Neill."

"If you don't mind," Jack muttered.

"I do not." Somehow the big man got him out of the chair without making it obvious that Jack needed help to stand. Carter had the back door open and stood with a worried look on her face.

_'Well, at least she's not pissed anymore. But I don't like this either,' _Jack thought with discouragement. He laid his head against the back seat and closed his eyes . . . just for a moment. Not that he would go to sleep. Just to rest them for a bit.

"Sir?"

Jack opened his eyes and blinked. "What?"

"We're here?"

"Here?"

"We have arrived at your home, O'Neill," Teal'c turned and looked around the headrest of his front seat.

"Already?" Jack struggled upright and looked out the window. They were right; he was home. He must have slept the entire way.

"So we are," Jack grinned; the nap had restored some energy. He would have to work hard to regain his former level of fitness if he wanted to be restored to active duty as soon as possible.

"Wait here and let Teal'c help you out, sir," Carter suggested as she too watched him from her drivers seat.

"Nonsense, I can do it myself," Jack replied stubbornly as he opened the car door and placed one foot on the driveway – his driveway – at his house.

It had been too long since he'd last seen it. And for a while, he banished the thought that appeared out of nowhere. _'Sure, you almost died, but almost doesn't count in certain cases. Death is one of them,'_ he told himself silently.

He stood and took a moment to look around; the neighborhood looked the same. At this time of day, the houses were mostly silent, most of the inhabitants at work and the kids at school. Life in the real world – outside the Mountain – went on as usual.

Intending to look at his house, he turned and saw instead, the chest and face of a very burly Jaffa, Teal'c. "Don't do that, T," Jack whined.

"Do you not wish to enter your home?" Jack swore he could see a slight smile on his teammate's lips, but the look of merriment was gone before he could be certain.

"Ya think?"

Carter had trotted ahead and bent over to put the key in the lock, he smiled at the view of her derriere. He directed a glare at Teal'c when he suspected him of enjoying his befuddlement. "What?"

When he looked back, the view had changed as she entered his front door. Mildly disappointed, Jack shuffled forward, under the watchful eye of his most current watchdog.

"You have been missed, "O'Neill."

Jack looked away. "Yeah, I missed you too." He paused and licked his lips. "Listen, about those orders . . ."

"There is no need to explain the obvious, O'Neill. I understand that you merely wished to protect us from the pain of your demise."

"Yeah, well, thanks for understanding. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Now . . ." he jerked his head toward the front door where Carter had disappeared.

"She will understand, with time," Teal'c placed his hand under his elbow, when Jack faltered.

"But in the meantime?"

"She is a woman of much intelligence," Teal'c replied cryptically.

"She's way smarter than I am, that's for sure." Jack shook his head with uncertainty.

"Do not underestimate her," Teal'c replied. "As for me, I regret not trusting Drey'auc's instincts in the past. Now, it is too late to change my own misconceptions."

Jack said nothing, what could he say that wouldn't sound trite? The man had lost his wife. So he settled for nodding and trusted that Teal'c would understand what wasn't said – what couldn't be put in words.

They paused at the front door and Jack took his cue to proceed through it on his own. He couldn't keep the big grin off his face as he walked into his living room. It had been far too long since he'd last seen it. Taking a moment, he looked around; it hadn't changed.

Thanks goodness he didn't keep plants in the house; they would've died. He winced at the thought of his backyard. The grass would've grown a foot by now. And as for his roses, they had probably given up the ghost long ago.

Carter called out from the kitchen. "I'm fixing you a bite to eat, and then we'll leave you alone for a while."

"I've got food here?" Curious, he started for the kitchen.

"When Janet told us she was letting you go home, we stocked it for you."

"You did?" She jumped when he spoke and dropped the plate. She crouched on the floor to pick it up and he bent down to help. "Sorry.

"For what?" She wouldn't look at him and busied herself with putting the pieces of bread back on the plate.

"For startling you . . . and other things," he mumbled, not sure where or how to proceed. He used the wall to help himself stand, still not as sure on his feet as he had been before all the previous crap had happened.

Both standing now, she turned toward the sink. "I'll fix you another sandwich."

"No, wait." Jack reached out to her and touched her arm, then jerked it away as she stiffened. But at least she was facing him again, her hands full of bread.

"You aren't hungry?"

"No . . . I mean yes, I am, but that can wait."

"But your privacy . . . I mean, you did say . . ." She licked her lips and looked down at her fingers that were tearing at the bread. "Look, I made a mess of it and the least I can do is clean it up."

Jack enfolded her hands in his and held them. "No, I'm the one that made a mess."

She cocked her head, for once seeming to not know what he meant.

"Of us – and the team." He added in a soft voice to clarify. "And I'm sorry for that."

"I missed seeing you, sir." She looked at their intertwined hands and nibbled her lip. "I wanted to help."

"Yeah, I know. And you did, but, there was a real good chance that I was . . . wasn't coming home . . . ever. And I couldn't see you watching me . . . like that." He mentally squashed the traitorous voice that insisted that he might still not be out of the woods. That he might have been left – less than a man – less than she deserved.

Their eyes locked, and he prayed she'd see the entreaty and pain in his. "Like Daniel?"

"Like Daniel." He nodded somberly, dropped her hands and spoke in a more hearty tone. "So listen, if you both want to stick around a little, that's all right with me. And maybe later, we can do pizza or a barbeque. If you want to, that is."

"I'd like that, sir," her answering smile lit up the room and Jack's life.

"As would I." Teal'c's voice boomed from the living room.

Jack grinned, almost giddy with relief, "Good, no, better than good. That's great. So where's the food? And none of that crap that Doc said I should eat. I want the good stuff."

**oXo **

"Thank you, Colonel. You may put your shirt back on."

"So, Doc. I'm good to go?" Jack smirked.

Dr. Fraiser pursed her lips. "Hmmm, you're still two pounds under."

"Two pounds. Doc, my watch weighs that much and I took it off."

"Sir, two pounds down, but you also look two pounds down."

"Ah, Doc . . ." he whined.

"But I can't see that keeping you from going on this mission," Janet Fraiser signed off on the physical exam form with a flourish of her pen and a smile. "You're good to go, sir."

Jack hopped down off the gurney, and then hesitated.

"Ah, Doc . . ."

Janet was confused by his actions for a moment before it dawned on her. She had promised the results would finally come in today. It had been a long couple of weeks as she and the colonel waited.

For Colonel O'Neill the wait had to have been stressful considering he was looking for proof positive that all of him had recovered; especially those little packets of DNA that he referred to as his troops.

She had to smirk at his mention of 'his troops.' Like an Air Force Black-Ops colonel would have troops. They would be missiles. The idea thoroughly shocked her in a delighted way. She knew Sam would be extremely happy if she could just tell her. Not that she was under the impression that Jack O'Neill's 'troops' were in anything but excellent shape. But this test would be absolute proof, and provide some much needed peace of mind for the colonel.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Janet remorsefully said, "It's late."

"Not your fault, Janet. It's just the nature of military paperwork," Jack headed for the main Infirmary area where his team's voices could be heard. They should all be ready to suit up for the mission, their next chore.

His team would be the best medicine he could have Janet reasoned as she headed for her office and the pile of paperwork that waited for her there.

No sooner had she slipped her shoes off than she was slamming her feet back into them. There on the very top, the very report that was late. Ripping open the envelope she scanned the technical jargon. Mentally double-checked the patient number, one that was double-blinded like those used when testing for AIDS, it was the colonel's results for sure.

Swinging out into the corridor, her feet tapping a fast tattoo across the tiles she shouted into the Infirmary.

"Colonel!"

Joyce whirled around from her chore of cleaning up after the four pre-mission physicals.

"They all just left together, Doctor."

Janet swept passed her and banged out the door into the corridor.

'_Damn, the elevator's already gone._'

Not even slowing down the stair well was her access to the armory below. Her steps were sharp and sure in the deserted hollow of vertical space. Puffing hard she banged out into the corridor just in time to see SG-1 enter the elevator, they were about to evade her once more, headed for the gateroom.

"Colonel!" Janet shouted just as the door banged shut, she was already covered half the distance, but too late.

"Damn!" Popped out loudly, filling the hall with her disappointment.

"Doc?"

And there was Jack, standing in the alcove at the armory's window, papers in hand. Janet picked up her feet and fairly flew for him.

"Doc? What's wrong?"

She could see all of his antennas twitching, his hand dropped to the 9mm on his hip from long years of habit. She was scaring him to death.

"Nothing, sir," Janet placed a restraining hand over the hand that rested on his weapon. "In fact you might say that the troops are in tip-top shape, for a 25-five year-old man."

He was so adorable when he could be confused, not something he often was, and certainly not for long. Dawning reason flashed across his face along with that crooked grin that warned all that knew him that he was going to pull a fast one.

The colonel dashed off his signature on the last paper handing the whole wad to the sergeant there.

"Denny, give me that helmet over there will ya."

With the helmet in hand, he turned back to face her and smiled, just for her.

"Thanks, Doc. That's good news. Gotta go. Mission ya know."

A fully recovered Jack O'Neill dashed past her at a full run for the stairwell. But unlike her his steps were soundless, no banging doors could be heard and only a ghost would be seen in the dark hollow vertical space she had just descended. He would go deeper, to his team and what ever mischief he was up to.

Janet smirked, she would hear of it, most likely in excruciatingly great detail . . . after the mission.

**oXo **

Jack felt like he was twenty-five, of an age to go along with his 'troops,' as he hurried to do what his first impulse had been – bedevil Jonas Quinn. Only the lack of news about the test had quelled his natural urge. He now knew that the man wasn't totally responsible for his loss of Daniel Jackson, and in the middle of the night we could admit to himself that perhaps he was entirely innocent of blame. Jack even felt a tinge of guilt at the man's attempts to pay a debt that was more his people's than his own. In fact, that attempt earned his grudging admiration. He wasn't sure that he could have done the same if he wore those shoes.

These thoughts churned across his mind in place of the ones that roared out at him from that room they were usually confined to that agreed upon prison with the uncertain future release date. Where his hopes for a future with a certain smart and very sexy subordinate, one of Earth's greatest natural resources, a woman to whom he had pledged not only 'Carter Territory,' but his heart, a heart kept mostly in stasis, but now allowed a flight of fancy, the fuel for this mad dash to play the jokester. A wild moment of rejoicing before duty was fully donned – Jack would be Jack. Colonel O'Neill would wait, as he always did.

Thankfully he'd given Jonas one last errand to run before joining SG-1 for his first official mission as Daniel's replacement. That thought now gave him less of a pause; he was beginning to believe he was more angry with Daniel than he ever had been with Jonas. But since Daniel wasn't available and Jonas was . . .

In his present mood he vowed to give Jonas a chance to prove his worth. Perhaps in the future he could vent his anger to the person he'd just discovered it was created for – Daniel. Stranger things had happened.

Reaching the bottom of the stairwell he exited into the corridor that led to the blast door normally used by departing teams, and there was Jonas.

He mentally pumped his fist in the air. '_Yes! Jack you still have that flawless timing._'

"Quinn."

Jonas ground to a halt as Jack dashed up handing him the helmet, which the younger man took automatically.

"Colonel?"

"Ah, goggles. You'll need some goggles to go with that helmet."

Jonas started moving toward the elevator.

"You won't leave without me. Will you?"

"No. We have time. Just make it snappy."

Jack smirked to himself. The kid was so gullible. His heart skipped a beat as a picture of Daniel flashed across his thoughts – Daniel in his helmet – he pushed it aside, that was the past, he needed to move forward, all of them needed to move forward.

Stepping into the gate room, Carter stood there watching the entrance for him, just like she always did. He smiled and she smiled, Teal'c became preoccupied with the windows above them, standing there as if he were totally alone. It startled him for just a moment. This was something they did routinely, only, now did it occur to him that it was his and Carter's moment, something that didn't reside inside the room, the only near-public display of their feelings for one another.

Facing each other their eyes spoke forbidden thoughts as each watched the other's back. When she turned away and moved up the ramp prompted by some unseen signal from Teal'c, Jack dropped his eyes to the floor, feigning boredom. It was their way, for who knew if they would reappear on the other side of that wormhole, or if they could survive past their first breath there.

The blast doors parted and Hammond strode in, business as usual.

"Good luck," spoke the general as Jack looked up.

"Thank you, sir."

Practically on the general's heels appeared the final member of SG-1.

"How do I look?" Jonas announced himself; Jack had to look away to hide his smirk.

"Ahhhh, you might want to lose the helmet."

Jack could have bust out laughingly, leave it to Carter to join in totally unaware of his little joke on Jonas by providing him the helmet. He tried to warn her off, but it was all in good fun, she must have had an inkling of what he was attempting. Probably more than he did.

"Good guess on the green," he responded to Jonas as way of greeting, and to cover his complicity in his failed gag.

Jonas muttered a confused 'Thanks,' and occupied himself with donning his cap.

Jack could feel the tightening up of the team, all of them already watching out for each other. Jonas' smooth merge surprised him, but he was happy about it. They were all safer for it.

"SG-1 you have a go." Jack knew the older man felt the snapping of the bonds, knew that he and his people were ready for this mission.

Thank you, sir," he smirked and turn away to face the gate, visually checking each of his people. Jonas he checked last, he sent a final nod of gratitude to the man and received a sincere reassurance that all would be as agreed.

And with a smile and a nod began to lead them the way up the ramp, he could place each of his teammates' positions by emotional radar as they followed him – their trust humbling.

Carter passed closely, their hands brushing, fingers touching as she dropped back, taking his back. Now nothing could shake him, she was close, protecting him as he would her.

Colonel Jack O'Neill took that finally step, out into the unknown. There was no fear, they would survive, and they had each other – and unbeatable combination once more.

**The End and The Beginning**


End file.
